Where there is a dead family

by What 1987

Holmes is having a case and showing great intelligence as always, Watson is good looking and he knows it, and Holmes is finding the exercise of logic not that altogether satisfying anymore.

Holmes was sitting in his chair, his black, discretely patterned, padded chair; it had to be so, for it was often necessary that he sat somewhere for a long time: his gluteus would have resented some damage. To be more specific, he had to sit in a room which, even though was strictly unoccupied by any human being other than him - unless one came on its own accord - was exactly meant by its furniture, by its general use all over the world, by all almost ineffable details, to lodge several of those. He sat there to think, to really reflect about any problem which answer wasn't already discernable to him. If he could clearly feel -with some exultation always - that his logically structured sentences of thought were crowding, one stepping on the other's toes toward an altogether consistent theory, solid yet vulnerable to the eminent fragility of Holmes losing his train of thought (entailed by his refusal to take notes of anything that weren't facts): then he would think in a much less gregarious room; he would lock himself in that one which served him most often as his laboratory and his hovel to experiment on the use of cocaine and its intriguing, fascinating benefits to speed up reasoning by way of facilitating the entrance to several levels of conscience. Yes, his laboratory was meant for science and the living room was meant for criminal cases and ill aimed analysis; after all, both the criminal and the pointless were deeply rooted in human chaos, subject to human error, and it would have been a horrible strategic mistake to extract oneself from all hints and suggestions that could help keep one's awareness in human ceremonies.

'I do believe there's something fundamentally wrong in even thinking with… - was it? really? He was diving deeper into himself – yes, with some desire in such unnatural acts. – He felt the blood ridden perpetual warmth of his hands, it felt so tender. – But I… - Watson was sitting across from him in his wine, discretely patterned, padded chair. – It is not… - He dove deeper. – I would like him to step on me'. That last one was a strong statement, one that made him lose track as Watson stepped on his back as if he was their tiger rug by the fireplace, head and all. He forced himself to go back, he was resolved to solve this, sooner than later. He forced himself to think of humping, with rhythm and all, strong smelling sweat and a penis left idle to no avail, another rigid hard penis trying to force itself into a rough heavy body that wouldn't budge, the combined stench of two strong-smelling sorts of sweat and a man calling another man's name. –Awful! Was his body's stab. – Then again, as was always proper, he forced himself to look at it from a different angle. This time Watson appeared, his nakedness only presumed by that of his shoulders, smiling, his forearm was nowhere to be seen but Holmes could feel his palm on his cheek, and he drew near, and he felt a soft kiss over his bottom lip and heard his snicker. – Now that didn't seem as horrible did it. –'It is bone deep… - His feeling, he meant. – I have always been alone. – With melancholy he was reminded that Watson made him laugh, he remembered, no, he could laugh with Watson. They had a grasp on everything the other said. - Watson was everything he needed. He startled at the thought, it had been quite uninvited. – So let's say it's wrong, what of it if it comes to that point?, to him being everything I need. I'm old, it's about time I recognize that anyone getting my true appreciation is a once in a lifetime feat, and it probably won't repeat itself.' Holmes was a practical person, that last argument pushed all others aside, and he convinced himself further. 'Sometimes the utility of something is way too precarious, to the point where it is above all other consideration of the truth, having realized this I would then as well be asking myself and the world if it is correct to defecate'.

Watson didn't arrive that day at a suitable hour, being called to two home consultations to gravely ill people, he was done at four thirty of morning and arrived home at five; not even Holmes had any motive that day to be awake at such an hour. Holmes had left the door to his bedroom open to hear when Watson arrived, but he didn't. Watson however went to stand in its frame to see if Holmes was awake and let him hear yet again what he thought of his irregular sleep habits, but as we said before, Holmes was asleep. Watson looked at him, his face was relaxed, and he found himself figuring but mostly wishing he was dreaming of something so pleasant it was kin to a child's play or could be subject to a fairy's tale. Holmes worried him all the time; he took a deep breath in his honor and it felt as if he was caressing and ruffling the detective's messy hair, in time the insides of his chest were being caressed. Watson didn't think much of it, he never did, his brain was programmed to avoid all relevant thoughts that could, if taken a certain path, culminate in crisis, and that pretty much amounted to ninety percent of all relevant things.

Holmes was reading the newspaper when he woke up and went to the living room, the police blotter in an olive dressing gown, tea gone, toast leftovers. Holmes didn't look up, but then again he never needed to.

- Ah! Watson, awake already, aren't you a little early? Mrs. Hudson is bringing me eggs and orange juice right now, we shall tell her to heat up the tea for you, I'm afraid the ceramic teapot is somewhat cold now.

Just in that moment Mrs. Hudson opened the door, the tray had a plate with eggs, a glass with orange juice, a cup, a tea kettle and toast bread.

- Or we should have had to tell her if I hadn't already, knowing you were at last awake.

Mrs. Hudson placed the plate and the glass next to Holmes on the table, the toast and cup by Watson, and refilled the teapot with boiling herbs flavored water.

- Do serve yourself, my dear Watson, exact measure of hot tea over lukewarm tea to give us bearably hot tea for all men's inside tissues.

- Ah! Holmes!, Watson exclaimed as if a bit dreamy. - You always know how to awake a man's appetite. Holmes smiled, barely.

- Indeed Dr. Watson, added Mrs. Hudson. – I can't ever erase from my mind that afternoon when, having invited some of the neighbors and my friends, we were about to enjoy a perfectly seasoned stuffed pork, when he ramped in claiming that looking at the pork had, if I remember his exact words: "reminded him of that joyful case when Mr. Edward Levinson's disemboweled body had been cleverly stuffed with sponges to appear as alive to the mail man who would look at him from the living room's window and any other casual passerby, therefore providing a perfect alibi and also the possibility to dispose of the body at a more sinister hour than that in which he had been killed." Again Holmes smiled, barely, mirrored by Watson, who nevertheless threw him an amused rebuking glance.

- Yes Mrs. Hudson, I actually have no idea of how you put up with him, if I didn't depend on his part of the rent I would support any tentative of yours to evict him. Holmes raised an eyebrow at him.

- I do apologize Mrs. Hudson, I did not think of how my words would affect the diners disposition to eat your fine dish.

Mrs. Hudson accepted the apology with three short nods. – It's all very well Mr. Holmes. And she left the room.

Watson looked at him again, shaking his head lightly and laughed. – I cannot believe you. Holmes smiled – When did that happen?

- Just about two days ago.

Watson laughed again, imagining it. – I wish I would have been here. Holmes smiled at him this time and with a broader smile too.

When Watson had at last completely and intentionally diverted his stare from him, drinking tea and eating toast then, Holmes took to light up his pipe, and after exhaling, spoke up with a resolution that made itself apparent by the sudden firm drop of his idle forearm over the table.

- My dear Watson, I've got something to tell you.

Watson raised an eyebrow and put his cup of tea down. - Yes? He was paying attention; Holmes had never addressed him with such intent.

Holmes' eyes rolled up to nowhere above for three seconds, time to figure how he could minimize the shock. Then, in a sudden mechanic way again he took Watson's right hand from the side of his plate on the table, raised it, and pecked the knuckles loudly, laid it down with the same rudeness.

Watson's forehead contracted, quarter a frown, quarter surprise, quarter confusion, quarter nothing; he stared at Holmes' face, his profile really, since that was the shot of his face he was letting him have. – What the devil has gotten into you Holmes? But Holmes didn't even eye him; and so the left corner of his mouth twisted: he was amused, making nothing of it.

Holmes took the pipe back to his mouth with his characteristic edgy movements (at the moment, more edgy than usual), and the motion was so familiar the whole deal was as if forgotten on Watson's side.

- Are you coming with me Watson?

His mouth was full of toast when he asked: – Where?

Holmes winced, his right cheekbone lifting. – A little class Watson! He rightfully demanded.

Only now, under the circumstances, Watson losing his manners brought him some sort of stinging irritation. Watson only wore that attitude around him, when the two of them were alone. The truth was that Watson had no manners whatsoever, he was a boy head to toe around him, a cleaner boy than he was but a boy just as himself. This resemblance felt like a good knock out; right now, when seeing the brown uneven dough over his tongue, Holmes had a flick of him towering over him at one of the illegal boxing rings in Holmes' usual boxing attire, smirkey he spat on the detective's front who had tumbled to the ground overtaken.

But Watson didn't pay enough attention to what in truth had been a plea; he shrugged his shoulders with nonchalance and continued eating rashly, with all the pressing demand of his early morning hunger; still, without food in his mouth asked again: - But where then?

Holmes took a deep breath, now he pleaded himself strength, calm; he readjusted. – I've received a telegram and our new client should be arriving… he paused and listened, – just about now.

The first rap came on point after "now"; Holmes nodded while the other two raps followed. – Come in! Please! He called out.

The man who came in was very poor, Watson noted, he didn't even wear a coat, he wore a jacket; he was dirty like a worker, his moustache had a worker air to it too, he was wearing a beret not a hat, thick cream-colored leather gloves, the skin of his face was hardened by the weather, his nose was prominent and hook-shaped but slim, his face was wide and with the very accurate shape of a square (which he thought was sign of a very determined character), his blond eyebrows were very thick (adjusting to his theory) and the wrinkles of his frown were very marked.

The man took a look at both of them: Watson had too much of a pretty and kind face, and – not that that was the first impression he gave in other circumstances – he looked properly naïve next to Holmes who was squinting as if hit by the sun, only his stare was clearly analytical, smoking and tapping his fingers against the table as if in tune with his thoughts; so the man looked at Holmes after fidgeting a bit when saying: - Perhaps I shouldn't have bothered you… I don't have any money… and I heard you were the best.

- You flatter me. I do this for the art Mr. Lowell, and I will listen to your case before deciding to take it or not; however, I'm thinking I might, the apprehension of your handwriting on the telegram and that you have come despite your doubts tell me that you're truly fretting about the tragedy that has befallen you. I can always refer you to the best official detective of London's police anyhow. So please tell us what happened the way you perceived it. He finished, signaling a chair he was offering him for a seat.

- Well, the man started – my name is Peter, Peter Lowell. He gave five steps forward, extending a nervous hand to Holmes. – Nice to meet you, muttered Holmes, while shaking it. Watson said the same when being his turn, only he said it clearly and smiling sympathetic. The man sat down and continued. – I arrived home last night from work… His frown did become very intentional at that moment, his lips pressed together thinning his mouth… he was only able to continue in sobs taking a hand to cover half his face – and found my whole family dead! After that he could only cry, he took the other hand to his face too and supported it, supporting his elbows on his knees.

Watson had gasped when hearing the end of the sentence, had felt heat vanishing from his whole body becoming very pale and then brought a hand to press his mouth with utter distress. Holmes gave sign of nothing, but had felt as if his heart had shrunk; he stood up taking some tissues and walked over to the man, putting a hand gently on the man's back he said – Here, so that he would take the tissues. – I'm very very sorry. He continued gently. – I assure you, I won't refer you to the police, your case is taken and I will give it my whole dedication, all other works I had assigned are as if forgotten. I will see to that justice is done. The man took his handkerchief from his pocket, unaware of the tissues offered. – Watson, get this man a glass of brandy and tell Mrs. Hudson to heat some more tea.

Slight measures of consolation taken in a lapse of ten minutes, Holmes made clear it was time to continue. - So Mr. Lowell, you came back then from the shipyard to your home last night and found your family dead. I'm sorry if I am too direct but in these matters we must speak precisely. The man nodded despite his pained expression, some vagueness in his red swollen eyes. – I didn't tell you I worked at a shipyard. – Mud when it hasn't rained, and it is from the east of the Thames, sawdust on your clothes, blue paint spots in quite some places, a color preferred for ships not as much for furniture, it isn't really time to explain; we must focus. – Right. I arrived home from the shipyard, I had employed the day painting one of the merchant kind in blue, and my family was dead. At this point the man would carry on speaking mechanically, avoiding that way his eminent breaking down.

– At what time would you say you arrived home?

– Maybe at nine.

– Who are the members of your family? Holmes instructed right away the manner of answer he was looking for, until now the man had been uselessly vague. - Please try to relate in a very detailed manner, it is quite necessary; do not omit time, position, impressions such as odor, atmosphere… I must know it all.

The man nodded. – I think I must have arrived at nine, though I'm not sure. I had a wife and we had seven children - my marriage dates from twenty-three years back -, the four oldest were boys and the youngest were girls. Their ages..: 22, 21, 19, 17, 13, 7 and 2, my wife was 40, I'm 43. The two oldest didn't live with us any more, the oldest one, Peter, got married last year and is renting a piece of two rooms in John's Street near Regents Park, he works iron; the second oldest, John, took to drinking since he was 16 and had only just joined the army going to live in the army's barracks…

- How long exactly?

- No more than three weeks.

- I see. Continue please.

- The third oldest, Henry, was working in the same place than Peter, only they paid Peter more; and the one in the middle, Manuel (my wife is Spanish), was employed in the potato market in the midland rail. My three girls stayed home: Janet, Gloria and Victoria (like the queen). My house is not far, is on Rodney Street, if you follow Easton Road to Estonville…

- I know where Rodney Street is.

- Well then… I went in and went to the kitchen… Peter, John, Henry and Manuel were on the floor bleeding; I knew right away that they were dead because they were almost white… His voice cut. – Oh really? Do I need to keep relating? Why don't you just come with me? Everything is just as it was! I don't know what else to say! I saw nothing more than you will be able to see!

- Of course, I've been very inconsiderate. Only two more questions Mr. Lowell: Did you know they were all going to be there?

- No, I must admit that was strange since Peter and John, mostly John are hardly there anymore. Then again I leave home for work at six and anything could have happened in that time in my family and I wouldn't know any of it.

- Do you have any suspicion of what may have happened?

- None whatsoever. Who could have wanted to kill my whole family?

- Alright, Mr. Lowell we'll go with you right away. Watson, can you do without the rest of your breakfast?

- Certainly! Watson answered with a lot of disposition, almost offended by the question, moved as he was by the events.

Holmes stood up briskly. – Off we go then! Without as much as a warning they both saw his naked back as he hurried to his room in order to dress properly, for a moment distracted he let his gown fall thinking of the shirt that would immediately occupy its place. Watson said nothing but felt embarrassed, embarrased shot a glance at Mr. Lowell who was as he had supposed embarrassed too.

Seconds it seemed, Holmes was out snatching his hat from the clothes stand and running downstairs; further embarrassed Watson stood up and showed an extended arm that said "after you, we are to follow him please".

They took a car and traveled in silence, the man kept looking nowhere near the floor, Holmes kept looking out the window, and Watson turned his sight from the window, to the man, to Holmes in a more prolonged way and back to the window.

They arrived to the house, a brick two stories house looking as if nothing had happened, quite identical to the ones at its side and the ones crossing the street. Holmes stood in front of it, looked at it up and down, and it all; to Holmes the houses didn't look identical at all, but then again the differences or similarities were to the purpose at the moment very irrelevant. He looked at the windows up close, briefly with his magnifying glass, the door knob, the two steps to the doorway and the sidewalk. They went in through the single metal front door; the man let Holmes go in first because of fear, and then Watson out of consequential politeness. The smell of rotten human flesh and feces, and blood, and really the smell that Holmes knew as that of death at a certain time in certain circumstances (because it would be innacurate to say that the smell of death does not vary), only just began to be strong; Watson took his hand to cover his nose and mouth only at separate, irregular very spread times.

What followed the door was a narrow hall, and further down one door to the left and one to the right. Holmes seemed to stare only vaguely at the floor of the hall, not that hopeful for a finding. Two steps before standing between both doors Holmes sniffed, and once there immediately swiveled to the left. The flies had sneaked in to have a feast. Holmes looked at the scene with a cold impassive eye that the scene wasn't likely to get from another human. Watson wasn't going in until Holmes stepped out of his view from the outside left of the door; he had understood that that room was the kitchen, ant to accentuate his dread he could hear the flies (Watson didn't deserve Holmes' scold over his writings being too sensationalist, perhaps those of being tipped over to the dramatic side, but if he truly had wanted to scandalize readers he had plenty of material in his notes that he didn't use unless it was relevant to the case's solution; he would only talk about the flies if they had a direct relation with the cause of death); but yes, Holmes was out of his sight and so he followed him.

Holmes looked at Watson; his eyes were wide and filled with horror, and when he rose them to his friend this one smirked and gave him a short nod, "lovely", he seemed to say; to Watson that seemed a most cruel attitude, but somehow he always felt there was something very Christian about Holmes' cruelty.

The man spoke up: - I'd really rather not going in… Harrumphed, and ended up going in anyways.

When seeing him Holmes realized he had missed remarking a curiosity: - Tell me Mr. Lowell, why didn't you go to the police?

The man couldn't take his eyes from the bodies of his sons. – I know Mrs. Hudson. Watson and Holmes looked at each other arching their eyebrows. - She was a friend of my wife and came around often. I don't think there was a single time when she came around that she didn't talk about you. I didn't want to contact you through her to spare her… well, this. With that they were all looking at the bodies again.

Holmes nodded. – I do love Nanny. Watson raised an eyebrow because Holmes was talking about love, and just when more pressing matters where on the table; he looked at his friend in such fashion; even if it was about "Nanny", 'really?' he was asking himself. But Holmes continued with the same offhand way that he had talked about the beauty of a rose once. – I love everyone and everything down at 221b Baker Street actually. He stepped over to the right side of the table where one of the bodies laid while Watson was smirking despite himself, amused by the absurdity of his speech; when he realized what Holmes had actually declared regarding him Holmes had knelt to look at the body up close.

He stood up almost immediately. – Which one is John? Watson startled and then remembered one of those victims was named John. The man signaled the same body he had just looked. – Him. So Holmes knelt down again and began searching through his pockets, when he found nothing but a wallet he began shaking his head frustrated, he examined it halfheartedly and ended up shaking his head with more impetus.

He stood up, the knees of his pants drenched in blood. With a hand on his hip he looked at Watson. – What do you think Watson? But treaded over his own words. – Do you have your wife's birth certificate Mr. Lowell? – Yes. – I have to see it. The man left to fumble through a drawer of documents in what once was their bedroom. Holmes looked at Watson then, still waiting for an answer. – Well… horrible thing. – And? – They were damn bluntly executed! – Indeed weren't they? All of them shot, not one, not two, but several times. Then the man came in extending the certificate to Holmes with a very trembling hand. Holmes signaled Watson, who took it (Holmes' hands had blood on them). – Oh! Sorry! Do you have something where I can keep it? I'm taking it with me. The man nodded. – I'll bring you a portfolio. He muttered and was gone again. – Would you say this was done by a normal weapon? – What do you mean? – Look at the bodies, you're a doctor, and military man on top of that, look at this. He showed a silvery ball in the palm of his hand, and then handed it to him. But the man came back and Holmes didn't give Watson any time to think. – Go over the bodies Watson and count the shots on each of them and overall. Mr. Lowell, tell me something about your wife, was she entirely Spanish? Did you know her past? Watson was introducing the document in the portfolio and leaving it in one corner of the room, and he then continued counting the holes over the body that was bent over the table without a word. – Did she ever show any unfounded fear?

The man's face darkened. – What do you mean?

- Nothing at all. I've got two theories, by the end of my research one of them might be completely ruled out or the two might merge; if you want this solved I need your cooperation.

The man nodded through it excusing himself, though his face was one of no friends. - As far as I know she was entirely Spanish, and no, she never showed any fear. I met her when she was a waitress at a café parlour. She moved here when her father moved his business, because during the third war of the coalition, curious story, her father met an Englishman while they were both hiding, injured, they turned from foes to friends and many years later they started a business of…

- Forget it Mr. Lowell, that is of no use to us. Watson, are you done counting?

Watson's shoulders dropped and he scowled, for a second irritated, he was still going through his first body and that was just too much to demand. - Not at all. He said with a lace of dryness and irony.

- I'll help you then. He walked over to him, who was still by the left side of the table checking his first body. – Do you know the year she moved here?

- I confess I really don't.

- Mmh. He had put his hand on Watson's low back, gliding it a bit while Watson tried to make him space so he could step over the body on the floor at their left. But when he had managed he was suddenly whispering to Watson's ear: - Are you doing a thorough job Watson? No use leaving the bodies as they are any more, move it if you need to. And then he squat down. Holmes whispered in his ear during cases very often. He said aloud now: - Tell me if you find a different kind of bullet from that I showed you.

They continued counting holes in silence; only the man if not as catatonic couldn't stop fidgeting, opening and closing the front metal door as he went outside and came back; and Holmes emitted a single "huh!" when he was looking at what was for him the second body in line. Once, the man began: - Our relationship with Johnny wasn't well, we hadn't spoken in years until he came by to tell us he had decided to join the army… I wish I had known him better. And then silence came back.

Watson finished first, and once Holmes finished too, he took note of his numbers and those that Holmes gave him. Holmes still looked around. – Yeh. He scratched his nape – I don't know what I'm looking for, everything is very clear. Mr. Lowell, will you take us to where your wife and the girls are?

After another space of hall of the exact length than the first one they arrived to a living room, room that had by its right the stairs. Holmes didn't wait to be led, stomping hard because he trotted and skipped steps went up the stairs; Watson didn't know why, but followed him in the same fashion, because Watson was always ready to be useful if danger ensued; however there was no danger this time.

There were three doors upstairs, one when at the top of the stairs you turned left, and two yet turning left again so you would be giving your back to the empty wall above the stairs. Holmes opened the one in the middle just as Watson came behind him, stopping paralyzed at the scene his friend had revealed. The scene implied just the same as the one downstairs; the walls, specially the one behind the bed and the ceiling, marked by too many blood splashes, but the victims were women and one of them a two year old and that made Watson feel worse. The man's wife was sitting with her legs extended and her back to a bedside table by the left side of the bed, the two year old was on her back on the bed, her diaper opened by the front. Watson couldn't see from that angle that a thirteen year old girl and the one of seven were on the floor by the right side of the bed; he knew about this when Holmes, there already, looked at the floor longer. - What? Watson asked. – Nothing; the other two girls. He looked around again but ended up ordering: - Start counting Watson, and crouched. And when the man arrived at the door: – It's time you go look for the police Mr. Lowell, I'll do things my way, and they will their own way but I'm pretty sure we won't interrupt each other now. Just one thing: Had you gone to the barracks with John or to a military ceremony? – Yes, when John had just moved, my wife, me and Harry were there. – Thank you, go for the police then, please.

Holmes still got to take a look at the hall, the stairs, the living room, he found nothing of interest. Going downstairs asked Watson: - How many on the wife Watson?

- Seventeen … He sighed. – It was carnage, horrible thing.

– So what do you say Watson? What do you think?

– Holmes… They were in the living room then. – It seems to me like you have the case solved already, but the only thing I know is they weren't normal firearm bullets; they were balls, probably for hunting. Really I don't know why you keep asking me what it is I think.

Holmes spun on his heels to face him and offered him a very sudden tender smile; it disappeared as instantly as it had come because he would speak almost solemnly: - Really, old boy, you underestimate yourself; you're much smarter than you think. The smile was there again though from one corner, more soft, subtle, discrete.

Watson stared at him, at his face specially, surprised, flattered, distrustful and for the second time in the day feeling a pervasive heat in his chest that seemed to cook his insides tender. Holmes wasn't used to saying such things as complements, but Watson was always delighted when he did, and even more when he had complemented his intelligence thing about which he considered the detective the final authority. – Really, you're acting strange today; you've already said two things today to which I can give no other explanation but that you are joking… yet you aren't laughing.

Holmes frowned and shrugged. – Not at all. Am I not allowed to say nice things? You're right about the weapon!, for example.

– If you say so.

– I do say so! But Watson shrugged in silence. – Why don't you trust me? What could I have possibly done to make you distrust me?

– I don't!

Lestrade barely said good morning to both of them as he went in, interrupted them, and they left, Holmes didn't stall to exchange any other word. They did talk to Peter Lowell – I'm sending you a telegram tomorrow morning, you're surely not staying here? Send a telegram to Baker Street to let me know where you're staying. Please, the signs to John's room in the barracks. The man drew him a sketch, and he put it in his coat's pocket. – Thank you.

And immediately they were walking to Estonville Road. Watson entangled his arm with Holmes' instinctively; they used to walk arm in arm. Watson had started it, always proud of his friend he enjoyed being seen by his side, no one even needed to know who he was; he thought Holmes exuded all of his qualities.

- We're off to Victoria Park and then we can have our meal. What do you say?

- Of course… I noticed something else Holmes.

Holmes smiled; Watson said so with the voice of a boy, of the boy that he was around him, something too light and candid to his grown man's voice, too crime fascinated, too eager to show creativeness. – Yes Watson?

They were both inside the car then. – There were too many shots. I can't imagine those four young men standing with their hands raised waiting for a single man to reload over and over again, until he killed them all. There were several murderers weren't there?

- You're right Watson. Only you're forgetting a lot of facts. You checked the wounds left by the balls yourself.

- What do you mean?

- They didn't die of blood loss Watson; there was a lethal shot on each and everyone, in the head to be exact, and I know it was always the first or one of the first shots because of the state of the coagulated blood in the spot. Why didn't anyone call the police Watson?

- Mr. Lowell told us…

- Yes Doctor, but firearms are loud; anyone would have called the police.

- Huh!...

- You said so yourself, it was a weapon generally used for hunting or target shooting: a compressed air weapon. I'll give you an example: the Girandoni air gun can give 30 shots without any need to change the air supply, and has a magazine with capacity for 20 balls; repetitive shots Watson, no need to reload, except for the sound of a small puff of air completely silent. Since that is the most used weapon of the kind, we're assuming for our working theory that that was the weapon they used.

Watson's face fell; he was most loyal and humble, yet he didn't enjoy being wrong despite the repetitive experience of it. He cleared his throat and spoke with a graver voice. – So a mad target-shooter or hunter? Although I know we are going to the military barracks in Victoria Park.

- Indeed Watson, they practice any of those couldn't they? The type of weapon and the precision of the deadly shots would appear to say so. I don't deny they could…

- Although, a soldier is trained too to shoot with precision.

- Mmh… And knowledgeable in weapons too… However Watson, although your reasons to deduce several murderers were wrong, your deduction, like I said, was right. I think they were at least three.

- Why then?

- No one is that fast to shoot, not even the best hunter. The men were all on the floor in a way that suggested they all had been shot while talking calmly around the table, as fast as the shooter could be, at least one of them would have given some steps to stop him or simply to hide. And also, the women were upstairs.

- So?

- The weapons are silent but the drop of the bodies is not. They would have asked what happened, one of them would have come out if they hadn't been killed quite at the same time.

- Of course… It all makes sense.

The horseshoes kept resounding against dirt and pavement, the air was cool but the environment was comfortable and Holmes thought it was a perfect time to speak to Watson; which had a point of manipulation, but then again, he also recognized he himself was not convinced at all, 'or didn't want to be convinced'… he would like to hear Watson on the subject.

-Watson. He was staring at the doctor most fixedly, spanning each reaction. – Have you heard of what is going on with Oscar Wilde?

Watson shifted in his seat only slightly. – Yes. He answered all too laconically.

- What is your opinion on the matter?

Watson scratched his throat absent-mindedly. – Gossips, nothing but gossips.

- I am not asking you for your opinion on the truth about it. What I hear is the trial is being quite successful against him.

- Well... Watson's eyes were on him at last. – That Lord Alfred Douglas does seem a little mannered - his mouth twisted with that word - doesn't he? And he smirked, with what Holmes saw as evident insincerity.

Holmes' eyes squinted, not minding about showing him his annoyance, he was also showing a faint superiority. - What does that mean? I suppose you're saying you think them deviated…

- Is there any other way to think about them?

And somehow Holmes was strongly defiant through a voice like a drone and a blank face. – Well I don't know, you tell me.

But Watson didn't really understand his attitude, so he found himself guessing correctly that Holmes had seen the insincerity of his smile; he avoided going there.

- You don't like Oscar Wilde, I don't know why you are mad at me.

- Do you like Oscar Wilde?

- Yes I do! That is why I think it is all gossip.

- So if it weren't gossip you wouldn't like him? I've heard his writings in themselves are quite what we would call deviated.

- I don't think so. Maybe they'll then judge me mad if I keep writing about these gruesome criminal cases of yours.

- Maybe.

Two minutes were spent in silence, but Holmes didn't deem the conversation over; - I am not mad at you. It bothers me that you lie to me when I am trying to speak to you seriously.

This "speak to you seriously" seemed suggestive to Watson, who ignored it successfully. – I haven't lied.

- Yes you have Watson; acting, simulation, is a level of the act of lying…

Watson felt discouraged, his suspicions of being caught in insincerity were confirmed to be correct and he could only plead the motives for his attitude at least had passed unnoticed. – Alright! Fine!... Yet your question was what I think of it, and you were right, I think they are deviated.

- As if in a mental disease perhaps?

- No, simply perverted.

- I see, you think of them as sinners?

- Yes.

… Holmes was considering that, knowing he had an argument however outrageous, he risked using it. - Do you truly think Watson, that all that the church says is truthful and irrefutable?

Watson inhaled loudly and looked at him, indeed outraged. - Have you lost your mind?

- No I haven't, I am only a most logical individual; it is only a question anyway!

They looked at each other, Watson seemed to say "stop" but Holmes seemed to say "what's the big deal?" and in the end through looks they ended up agreeing it was acceptable to only discuss about it. - No I don't, I believe in the church.

- So there is no possibility of a, let's say, misinterpretation?

- Maybe a tiny possibility, if we're talking about misinterpretation, yes, a human error of judgment.

- But you do admit we could have a wrong idea.

- Our men of religion are studious of it; a tiny possibility, that's what I said. But I don't believe it is wrong about sodomy, homosexuality, whatever.

- Why?

- Because it is unnatural. Clearly, woman and man were meant to procreate; all other sexual act beyond marriage is a depravity.

- I have heard that these men cannot really have a sexual inclination for women, they have never liked a woman.

- Probably, but how is that an argument on their favor? They have removed the death penalty anyway.

- Yes, but they still have jail time and hard labour. It is an argument, because feeling attracted to their same sex would be the natural inclination for them.

- Well yes, but wouldn't that just make them themselves unnatural?

- Yes, but then how could that be made their fault? You wouldn't condemn an idiot for committing a crime unknowingly, because it isn't properly his fault, he couldn't help himself.

- Yes, but the difference is the idiot didn't know he was doing something wrong; a homosexual man could just abstain.

- Could he? Watson I found several writings of a Sigmund Freud between your arsenals of literature once…

- You should stop going through my things.

- I had heard about him, doesn't he think of sexuality as a central feature of humans?, from the childhood I think he says. What a revolutionary concept!, children with sexual impulses, women!...

- Will you stop? Watson raised his voice. He was a doctor, he knew much more than the general public about Freud (though not as much as a psychiatrist), but he never liked what he said. He liked to think of some things as pure; even Holmes consoled him in that aspect, he took on all of his cases always with a clear sense of morality, there was always a certain right and wrong in the middle of all the bloody chaos. – I don't like what he says, I believe he's wrong. Believe me, he won't find any real relevance in the scientific landscape, his studies are scarce and he shouldn't be making such bold assumptions.

Holmes' eyes widened slightly at that point, his body sinking a bit lower in the car's seat; it was the attitude of someone defeated, he looked at Watson with despondence. Watson wasn't thinking; looking at Holmes with a sad countenance hit him in the gut like seeing a kitten, or Gladstone.

- Old boy, what kind of horrible things are in your mind this time? But at this, he only managed to have Holmes turn his eyes from him to the window and a little frown appear right between his eyebrows. – Sometimes you must stop thinking Holmes, let things go! You get yourself undone in the tiniest of problems! This homosexuality thing is not worth discussing, I'm sorry if you know someone who is that way but you must let him to his own problems, you can't solve this for him!

Holmes looked at him again, with eyes ever so pleading; Watson didn't know what to do, fortunately for him the car stopped. Holmes dragged his hat closer to him across the seat, putting it on with resignation, and stepped out of the car; Watson could exhale in relief and follow him.

The military barracks were shockingly crammed; it reminded Watson of the not so good old days. A few soldiers were outside and they let them in easily, Holmes told them they both had lived there some years back and wanted to see their old rooms. – Nothing happened to me, at least nothing that lasted this long, but look at my friend here: 34 and he can't walk without his walking stick. He also took a bullet in his shoulder. He tapped with two fingers Watson's shoulder for emphasis, getting a very convincing and indeed truthful wince from him. Now they were in and the smell was horrible; the smell of cigarettes and alcohol were decent, what wasn't, was the smell of sweat and farts. Holmes looked at Watson with a glint in his eyes when this one restrained from pinching his nose to block the stench; he sniffed and whispered to him: - Aah! Farts! Watson snickered and fisted his shoulder lightly. – You're so vulgar.

In the room of a once John Lowell, Holmes only looked thoroughly through the things on the table, papers and notebooks, finding a telegram, he read it fast and put it in his pocket. – We must go before his several mates return. He told Watson leaving the room, but they didn't leave the barracks, instead they went to the room right next to it. – Give me your cane Watson. He did, without any question. Holmes drew the blade and pinched the wall with it at the intersection of two bricks. – Plaster Watson, he told him as a small hole appeared there. – A very weak material for walls wouldn't you say? Stay by the door, if someone is coming to this room clear your throat and if by then I'm seeing something interesting on the other side block his view so he doesn't see that's what I'm doing.

They heard steps, Watson knew three men were entering Lowell's room because he was seeing them and turned his eyes to Holmes, who understanding only put a finger to his lips and then pressed his forehead against the wall, looking through the small hole. It was nothing, a snap, the briefest of times, some 45 seconds elapsed when Holmes was gliding from his spot to Watson, taking his forearm and leading him so they both sneaked out of the barracks like ghosts.

Watson was exhilarated, and outside he could show it openly, his whole face glowing in happiness. – You got it! I know it! What did you see Holmes? You move as quietly and light as a thief!

Holmes licked his lips and smiled at him. – I'm not telling you, it would ruin some of the surprise of the end.

- I hate your surprises! But he didn't, sometimes he had a feeling that Holmes kept the mystery of things more than he would otherwise do as a present to him. Sometimes it did frustrate him, but in the end he always adored the grand revelation.

- All I can tell you is that the birth certificate is the evidence of a clue.

- Oh sod your certificate!

- My my Watson! We're very vulgar today!

- Must be the military air of it all.

- Certainly.

They had a fine meal at the Royale, they were always there. With how good was their mood and how Holmes was talking of nothing and everything Watson saw no wrong in finally appeasing some of his curiosity: - Holmes. His voice was lower than before. - May I know what was it that concerns you regarding homosexuality? You really know someone who is?

Holmes looked at him very pointedly, a look that Watson again didn't understand. – Yes. His look was actually a reproachless accusation 'you for example', Holmes was thinking.

- Who? He asked unthinkingly but immediately recovered his composure. – I'm sorry, it's none of my business.

- Mycroft.

- What? It was a shout, loud loud shout, all eyes were on them. Watson recovered his composure again, addressing one or two of the spectators he said: - My apologies. And continued eating whilst Holmes chuckled. After a bite he was then apologizing to Holmes. – I'm sorry Holmes, I shouldn't have reacted in such a way, I just never… Forget it, it's none of my business, but I am here to help you, and him, in whichever way I can.

Holmes chuckled again. – You're such a hypocrite Watson.

Watson's head sprang up at that last remark, facing Holmes dead on with an expression of cautious shock. – Why do you say that? I mean it, I'm not just saying it.

Holmes rolled his eyes but through greeted teeth agreed. – Yes, yes. A pause. – So I guess is not so bad as you had posed it when it is someone you know, eh?

Knowing what his own answer would be Watson suddenly found himself slipping into his fantasies, Holmes was there in every single moment he had admired him the most, nothing but Holmes and the feeling of a weigh on his lids. Three seconds of that and he finally answered: - Regarding you Holmes, or your family, I lose all my standards.

- I see, so I'm not good enough to meet them. Holmes replied without meaning it, all he meant was to coax more of that from him.

- No. I mean I am capable of losing them. If suddenly instead of a detective you indeed turned into a thief I would forgive you, I think I might even follow you and help you too in this new warped mode of your missions.

Holmes blinked and smiled at him, he was blinking and smiling at him; at last he just continued eating the rest of his meal. Watson suddenly felt quite uneasy, when Holmes had returned to eating it had finally downed on him what he had been seeing; Holmes had never smiled at him that way, it was what he knew to be the smile of someone in love; he was incredulous, but this time he wouldn't be able to brush that aside, it even mounted as the kiss on his knuckles was joining it, 'was it Mycroft or was it Holmes?' crossed his mind, but this he decided not to think about.

At night they were on a car again, Holmes had disappeared for the rest of the afternoon and had arrived to their rooms at ten at night, ordered him to take both their guns and come with him, and this was the result. Watson was distracted, his usual anticipation for the resolution of a case overlapping with the notion of Holmes' presence. It didn't surprise him when they were kneeling down behind a bunch of bushes facing the barrack's main door; Watson thought there were plenty of bushes that were wider, where they wouldn't need to be so close to each other in order to hide effectively, but he let that go because Holmes always knew best.

The wait was long, his leg was beginning to sting, but he wasn't too aware of it until he felt Holmes' hand pressing to his shin. – Is your leg hurting you? – Not too much Holmes, don't make a scandal about it. He answered cuttingly, with the exact purpose of making Holmes take off his hand, and he succeeded.

Another thirty minutes and Holmes put a hand on his nape, whispering to his ear while they both looked ahead. – There he is. It was one of the three men that had come into the room, Watson remembered him. – We're going to follow him, he's not staying anywhere near here. – Yes. Watson whispered back. -But beware, that's when Holmes turned to look at him - he has a gun. Watson strained his sight when Holmes told him this, only then finding suspicious the man's hands inside his coat's pockets, and when he indeed figured the barrel of a gun he made what he considered the mistake of looking at Holmes in the eyes. Holmes' were grey and glowing with the silver light of a moon that showed itself small, and at this Watson felt his own eyes darken; when Holmes saw this his breathing suddenly turned heavy, thing not even he himself had expected; instantly he diverted his look everywhere and stood up discretely to glide behind a tree… The chase had begun.

They shifted from tree to tree, Watson leapt over to the one that Holmes had just left, following his trace. They stopped for a while: the man was crossing the bridge over Hertford Union Canal; once he reached Ford Road they jugged, a strange way of jugging, one that muffled the sound of their feet on the ground. The car that had been waiting for them was now following them by as parallel a street as it could find, under Holmes' orders. They saw the man turn right and then left immediately; again they hurried.

They kept following him through streets, for a while they continued by the Eastern Railway. At each and every other corner they hid behind the house at the corner, always keeping a distance of about three blocks if the way was straight; if the criminal rounded at a corner then they doubled their speed to catch up, lest he turned again and they lost him. Watson thought that Holmes' focus wasn't on him then, but it was his own focus that couldn't properly be anyplace; Holmes was aware of both, the criminal and Watson, every time they stopped suddenly swerving to hide he was squeezing that hand he had taken to pull him back or which soon he would pull forward. Watson felt the danger but he wasn't leading the chase, and so he wasn't really following the criminal, he was following Holmes blindly, and the necessary motions Holmes made to steer him had now a double meaning that overwhelmed him.

In Mile End Road they came across their own car and they had to take refuge in a narrow doorway, the sound of the horseshoes having made the man turn his head. Watson felt Holmes' left hand on his side and his mind twirled with it; but the immediate nudge it gave meant Holmes was ordering to go out to the street again. When swerving and following Regents canal for two blocks it seemed the persecution would never end. They crossed the canal and they were on Skidmore Street and then it happened… Holmes had to push Watson against the wall of a house in a corner: the man had begun to stop.

He said lowly: - Go send a wire to Lestrade. He signaled the left. – The nearest you can do it is that way. Tell him to come to Skidmore Street where it meets White House Lane; you'll wait for him there. And tell him to bring tin oil. I'll be outside the house, so when he arrives: come, silently, and tell them to crouch we don't want to be seen by the windows. Watson nodded and left walking quickly, a few feet more and he was running.

When Watson came back with Lestrade and other two policemen, Holmes was sitting outside the house under the left front window. Hunching the necessary distance he went to them before they reached him, he took the tin oil from Lestrade's hands and spoke: - Have your guns ready, they're armed up to the neck, but do nothing until I say so, and when I say so, try if you can aiming their hands. You, he told one of the policemen, - will keep guard by the window. Let's go.

The tin oil turned out to have its use in oiling tin, oiling the tin hinges of the very old door; only Lestrade grimaced but they all thought he was crazy. The door opened quietly then, Holmes having already jimmied the lock while Watson was away.

The three of them walked by the hall cautiously, then, almost by an opened door from which light emerged, Holmes squat down and the rest imitated him. Holmes signaled his ear "listen", he was saying this way. Neither could see in their current position what was going on in that room.

- What are we doing tomorrow?

- Like what…

There was a chuckle and a third voice. – He thinks we might be going at it again. Isn't that too bloodthirsty?

- I only thought we were varying.

- Are our activities not good enough for you anymore?

- I didn't see any harm in doing something else.

Holmes seemed to comb his eyebrow with his left hand, impatient.

- What are we doing tomorrow! I'm still keeping an eye on Mr. Lowell and the police!, how about that? What you think we're off the hook already?

- Fine…

- One day, the next will come just as this one: nothing.

- God willing.

- They really shouldn't punish anyone for killing that kind of hybrids.

- But they would judge us for murder.

Holmes turned his head to Lestrade and Watson smirking, at last the confession complete.

- What world do you live in?

He gestured with his index for them to go near to him.

- A more just one perhaps.

He whispered so low, his hands nestling so they didn't allow the sound to escape, both Watson's and Lestrade's ears to his mouth: - I am going to turn off the lights so it isn't easy for them to reach for their guns. Don't bother shooting if you can't see, tackle them. One of them is sitting by the opposite wall, you both take that one. When I'm turning the light off I'm shouting "now", that's when you run in. Lestrade go tell your man to shoot at the one by the window when he hears me, go and come back.

Lestrade came back, told the other policeman there to go for the one at the corner; in all four minutes and they were ready. Just as soon Holmes sprang up and his left arm rounded the wall in time he shouted: - Now! , the lights were off, four shots had resounded and they had all run inside.

There were swearings in the darkness, there were grunts, there was one: "Don't resist in the name of justice". Lestrade had been left to no use and he was the one to turn on the lights again.

Nearest to him was Holmes, with his knee in a man's chest, his right on his neck and his left on his wrist; by the opposite wall beside a chair that was turned over, Watson had a knee over a man's back and his gun aiming at his temple; by the corner the two policemen were standing having put the handcuffs to a man lying on his stomach. The wall and the table were covered with hunting guns.

No one injured except the one by the window in the hands, the mark of a bullet on the door, one in the opposite wall and one in the ceiling, but nothing else; the gun that had made this damage to the building thrown about five feet away from Holmes and the subjected offender; Watson was disgruntled at this, because it meant Holmes had decided to take alone, yes, the one that was nearest to the door but one who was actually holding a gun. 'What does he get being brave?.. Stupid'.

They were formally arrested, and Holmes and Watson finally found some use in the car that had been following them all along, taking it to go back to Baker Street. When they arrived at last it was two thirty in the morning of the next day. Holmes turned on the fire as Watson sat in his chair; Watson was very exhausted, but the evening needed that type of culmination or he wouldn't be able to sleep. Holmes then served them both a glass of whisky and sat in his own chair.

- I hate it when you're brave without any need of it. Watson said, and then took a sip from his glass.

Holmes fixed him with something that was near to a mocking glance. – What have I done now?

- If you knew that man had a gun, he was so near to the door, you stood up first, you went in first, and on top of it all you decide to take him alone?

- Well I'm sorry Watson, Holmes replied, adding sarcasm by rolling his eyes, and continued explaining in all seriousness – but I don't like people dying in a situation that is solely my responsibility.

That was all he needed to hear to agree, after all, he couldn't imagine a better configuration of roles in which no one had to take that most prominent risk to die; he thought he and Lestrade could have exchanged roles with Holmes and the risk would have been reduced on the three of them; but he imagined Lestrade getting shot and thought he wouldn't want that on his shoulders neither. He would have preferred to have taken Holmes' place, but that required for Holmes' order and he knew that would never happen; 'Holmes never stopped taking care of everyone in his cases, especially of the victims and him'.

Watson swallowed and there were three minutes of silence; he decided it was time to go to sleep and the only way to make that possible was to know the details. – So what was it I didn't know?

- You know almost everything but you didn't ovserve, you didn't analyze. The number of shots Watson, they were greater in the bodies with darker skin.

- Alright, it was all due to racism.

- Yes Watson on one part, but not on the other. A racist crime of this type in London was unheard of old boy. Two facts added too to let us know there was a personal motive involved: Mrs. Lowell quite obviously wasn't Spanish, their sons, and she most of anyone, had traits of the indigenous people of North America, so why was she pretending to be Spanish?; the evidence of a clue old boy, a fake birth certificate. And the second fact: a whole chamber had been emptied on Mrs. Lowell once the three deadly shots on her three daughters had been spent.

- Wow! Watson was truly surprised, it was something he would have deemed of no relevance. - Of course.

- The nature of the motive is settled then, but the situation has yet to be explained. Why was someone taking revenge on Mrs. Lowell until now if she had been living here for years and years? The only thing different that had just happened to the family was his son joining the army, plus, we know they had been seen by the soldiers because they went to the barracks when his son moved. A very important detail too: Why were they all there if usually the family didn't meet? There was no motive was there? Whichever reason they were there, at least John, the most separate element of the family, had to have been summoned, such a thing is usually done by wire. I looked for the wire in his pockets, but it wasn't there, so is it too wrong of me to assume that he left it in his room?, maybe in the trash of his room, but still in his room.

- And so we're at the barracks.

- Yes, which has also the additional advantage that, as you can remember, we had established the possible suspect could be a military man, who practiced hunting or target shooting. Because Watson as much faith as I have in you and as much as I adore this country, I don't know if we really can find that sort of precision in aiming in all of our infantry men.

- I cannot but agree.

- So we're at the barracks, I go for the desk and as you remember we find the telegram.

- Yes, what did it say by the way?

- Son, I need you here at three o'clock.

- That's it?

- Yes that's it but the date is correct. We're not as naïve as to believe his mother sent him that are we Watson?

- Not now.

- Something important was at that desk too: a notebook.

- Yes? What was important about it? The handwriting I bet!

- Ooh! Almost there Watson!, almost there! I'm sure that you Watson, a man of letters, know the differences that American English and our own have acquired in the written form, things such as the exchange of the "s" for the "z", and for example, the word color without a "u".

- Yes.

- So the texts on the notebook were written in American English Watson, an American man in our infantry regular units?

- I see, so the owner of the notebook knew Mrs. Lowell.

- That's what I believe. So we wait for them and he immediately grabs the notebook, you know what else I noticed Watson?

- What?

- A perfect steady hand to take the notebook and turn the pages, perfectly steady, good enough for aiming.

- But sure that wasn't conclusive.

- Which is why I was gone for the rest of the afternoon. Who is this American? What is his relationship with Mrs. Lowell? Does he practice hunting or target shooting?

- And well…

- He does. Watson snickered; 'this was turning into a most entertaining recount of the facts'. – The other soldiers tell me he practices hunting, and he also goes by the name of Thompson. After this I turn to Mycroft.

At this Watson swallowed, remembering how Mycroft was supposed to be homosexual in their two minds. – What for?

- If someone can let me have access of the criminal records of a foreign country it is him.

- And?

- Nothing. About this we will have to hear when they make their declarations.

- So who wrote the telegram then?

- The one you tackled. You did see; I had instructed Lestrade in advance to be ready to take off with a simple paper that said they had been told their rights, so they would sign them with their names.

- Oh yeah! That's what they signed!

- Yes.

- Huh!... Just one last question.

- Shoot.

- How did you know we were supposed to follow him at night?

He hadn't left the barracks in all day or read the paper that someone knew, can you imagine that Watson? Not having any contact with the world and your partners in crime when you've just committed one? Also, the soldiers told me he sometimes left at night. So that's it, today he was leaving at night to see them and speaking to them about it, so we would have our confession.

- Impressive!

- Elementary.

Watson shook his head, grinning, of a much better mood and not tired at all; he downed the rest of his whiskey and stood up. He was already walking to the door that would then lead him to his bedroom when he said: - Good night then Holmes, it's been delightful. And he had already gone past Holmes in his chair when he heard him: - Watson… It was dragged, it was a warning, it was Holmes knowing what he was doing: avoiding all conversation that could come next.

He stopped then, he turned, Holmes had just now turned his head to look at him. – Sit down. He said and brusquely turned to fill his own glass with whisky again; that sort of actions didn't seem like a good omen to Watson. But he did sit down, following orders, otherwise he would have given himself out, acting as it would have been unaccustomed.

– I'm sure you know Mycroft isn't homosexual. Holmes started bluntly.

- I told you Holmes, it is none of my business. For this he was rewarded with an impatient wide-eyed and somewhat rebuking glance from the detective.

- Why then would I tell you that?

- I don't know, I know you don't really get along with him. And for this he was rewarded with a bunch of exasperated gestures, from a deep sigh to a pair of splayed hands that seemed to say: "please!".

He had replied that in order to tell a lie, any lie would do at the moment, but also to deter Holmes from continuing with what he was obviously up to; this Holmes knew, and he decided it wasn't going to be that easy.

- Have I been bothering you Watson?

- Not at all, why do you say that?

- I've been throwing hints at you all day long.

Finally Watson could do nothing but press his jaws tightly shut, looking at him with wide-eyed surprise that was also perfectly pictured by his tight grip on the arms of his chair.

- I guess there's no other way to go about this: You're attracted to me Watson.

To Watson's forehead was immediately added a frown. – What? He screamed for the second time that day.

Holmes chuckled but struggled against the muscles of his face. – I'm sorry, there's nothing funny about this, I'm speaking in all seriousness. And I know you think is wrong…

- No, no, no, no, wait a minute! Watson interrupted him, looking positively furious. He was no longer reclined on the back of his chair, in fact he was shifting forward to almost sit at the edge, his chest was inclining forward too, and he pointed at himself: - I'm attracted to you? Each word had emphasis on it, it had almost missed being an entire sentence.

- Yes you are Watson, and don't make me have to parade in your face all the details that let me know it.

Watson retracted his guard a bit; it was a rightful menace against which he had no defense.

- If I've been throwing hints at you all day is so that you would remember it in all of its extent, you've reacted at each and every single one of my advances.

At this point Watson's expression was one of concern, his eyes irradiating fear. 'Had Holmes only been playing him?, for some far more intellectual reason than he had imagined?'

Holmes sought to console him then. – If it helps, yes… I must confess, I'm attracted to you too. He had had a hard time saying it anyway.

The fear from Watson's eyes disappeared but the concern was staying there, resilient; he made a motion to stand up and run off to his room but Holmes stood up instantly too. - Sit down! He shouted. Watson slumped down on his chair and covered his face with one hand, that arm supported itself on his thigh by his elbow. And now Holmes when sitting down was squirming, his speech wasn't as comfortable anymore; his hand would keep going to his hair, then to scratch his nape, then they would be in front of him trying to help him speak. – And I know that you think is wrong, and I myself, I'm not sure it is right, but I'm on the point Watson, where I no longer care. And if you appreciate Watson, the whole extent of your affection for me, you will agree with me. I don't care what the scientists say on this matter Watson, for me it has really become a matter of the utmost importance, almost as a basic need; and so I don't really care neither what priests have to say about it. It is bone deep Watson, what I feel for you.

At the end of his confession his mouth felt dry and his heart was hammering, his fear of rejection was proving to be the highest form of fear he had ever experienced. Watson recognized that for once his friend hadn't kept his usual suave coolness; he was looking at him, with something that was three steps away from anguish.

- I can't Holmes. He replied automatically.

- Please Watson, - this shocked them both and stopped Watson from standing up again. Holmes didn't have the spirit nor saw the necessity to refrain anymore – please, just think about it, you're not thinking about it. He stood up and sat on the table, right in front of Watson, looking at him straight. – I'm not letting you go until you think about it.

Watson stared at him, in sympathetic disbelief. – What am I supposed to do?

- Just sit there, don't speak and think about it. I will know if you are not thinking about it.

- Really Holmes? You now read minds? If he was about to be sarcastic and pedant more than once, it is because he would be trying to take them both back, to when they were friends glad to mock each other, instead of this new complicated mess of novelties with consequences only of great scale.

- Shut, up! He ordered severely, with an edge of anger.

Watson relented first by sighing, he looked at Holmes who was staring at him fixedly, and resolute then to think of it as he was ordered, in its whole extent, he supported on the back of his chair again and closed his eyes.

He immediately went to the moment they had met, his eyes had dragged all over Holmes then, 'an attractive man' he had concluded. And then when he convinced him of his deductive powers knowing a man in the street had been a general, 'a very intelligent man' he had concluded. And then one snowy day when they couldn't go out and didn't have anything to do, so they just sat across each other and they just kept laughing with each new turn of the conversation; looking at Holmes laughing, for hours and hours, the sight of his smiling face and his twinkling grey eyes shrunk by the happy expression, his body contorting in a most pleasant nonchalant manner, Watson had confessed himself that he was in love to later forget about it. And when he had married Mary, Holmes had disappeared from the salon where they were all eating and celebrating, Watson had gone looking for him and had found him outside holding his own waist, covering his eyes with one hand and sobbing lowly but loud enough to be heard; - Holmes?, and he had replied: - I am really going to miss you, smiling again though with red eyes; Watson had laughed disheveling Holmes' hair then and shaking him by the forearm.

He opened his eyes then. Holmes was now in front of him, his expression betraying nothing.

Watson sighed again, his forearms barely lifting from the arms of his chair to fall back down in defeat: – I don't know what to do… There was no response to that; it was even cleverer to keep quiet. Watson was looking at the window, by his left, it was a moment to think of himself and himself only. – What do you want me to do? You know I can't!

Holmes was replying calmly, soothingly even, his voice deep, quieter. – Except you can.

Watson looked at him then; they were most often, like then, capable of communicating more through body language and guessing what the other meant thanks to the share of past experiences. Watson's eyes were plunged in Holmes'. – And then what?

Holmes breathed deeply; Watson had a point but he had stubbornness. – I don't think it will be that bad.

Watson stomped over Holmes' answer with a clear tone of business, perhaps with a mild bell of passion: - Is it worth it?

Holmes looked at his hands then, which were joined between his knees, and he shrugged. At last he could find a favorable point: - If you're thinking about the more internal consequences, like that it won't ever be the same again; I can at least promise you that I will always be your friend.

- Holmes, we both can love a woman.

Holmes raised his head then, quickly. – That's not true.

- Yes it is!

- You left Mary!

- We left each other!

- And why!.. I wonder.

- And you clearly had a crush on Irene.

Holmes cackled two times, a pause and then laughed more fluidly. – Really Watson, that's a pitiful argument!

- You asked for her photo!

Holmes was exasperated then. – Watson, you're again not talking to me seriously. I asked for her photo and that's it, what is that supposed to mean?

- That you can like a woman. You call her "The Woman"!

- She outsmarted me! She is the woman that outsmarted me! That's reason enough for me to want to have anyone's picture! Those scraps from murderers and thieves, they aren't just archives Watson, I wouldn't have liked to admit so but they're also a hobby!

This was turning out to be the most enlightening conversation on Holmes's human traits. It seemed to Watson as if they were in a relationship already, all "feeble" characteristics out in the open, tender, for Watson to taunt him with the disdain of a woman unsuccessfully wooed. But in reality, what it was doing to his vision was adding to Holmes' personality to fill in all the before unexplainable gaps, rounding off into a complete lovable subject; lovable, because nothing said had managed to take from his loveliness, and now also he wanted, and furthermore, needed love. This Holmes who liked to think of murderers and thieves for the sheer morbidity of it but never completely relented to his imagination, this Holmes who was in love with him and yet had helped him marrying Mary, this Holmes who allowed them to walk arm in arm, loved Queen Victoria and wasn't as fast to sin as to forgive some other sinners in his own view of justice; this was the real Holmes, and just having a clear whole assessment of him as a person wasn't letting Watson detach.

- Wow… I wouldn't have imagined you to have a hobby of the sorts.

Holmes let his hand land on his leg with a slap, and inclining his head right in only a few degrees shot Watson a glance of absolutely short patience, and certainty that what he owed him right then was indulgence; Watson rolled his eyes at himself agreeing, almost short in patience with himself. 'Have patience with me Holmes', he also seemed to say, 'I don't know what to do, I don't have the audacity to decide'.

And so Holmes paused some seconds, giving himself that short time which was enough for him to gather courage. – Can I kiss you Watson? Watson visibly trembled from head to toe, it seemed the tremor left his heart pounding. – With only that we can leave, consider this with a further grasp on it. Nothing but a kiss.

Watson had his eyes on his knees now, too weak to lift him up again and send him running off; he could only say it in a murmur, with the idea that Holmes was attentive enough to hear it. – And then I can take it back?

- Yes.

It was still a murmur and the same attitude. – Yes.

Holmes first inclined his chest forward and stopped instantly, it was awkward, and Watson was too far; he moved to sit on the mere edge of the table and Watson helped him instinctively, sitting nearer to the edge of his chair too; one of Holmes' knees was between Watson's legs, one of Watson's between Holmes' and Holmes raised his hands to pose them on the sides of Watson's face, rose it a bit and then he was kissing him. Watson didn't resist, he had given his permission and so his lips opened easily to give way to Holmes, who was claiming a space between them. Holmes was thinking too much about it and that made him tender; and Watson's heart was drumming almost in an arrhythmic set of thuds. The moment their lips separated for good, however letting his hands rest for another two seconds while he looked at Watson, Watson emitted a sweet short moan, his eyes still closed; but when hearing himself he opened them and retreated, for a while ashamed until he saw Holmes wasn't smirking.

Holmes stood up. – We can leave now. Watson did nothing, Holmes offered him a small smile and walked away.

In the morning Watson couldn't look at Holmes. He had woken up first and gone to the living room to have breakfast in an attempt to appear aloof; but Holmes went into the room some twenty minutes after and Watson only knew it because of the noise of it and the fleeting vision of his legs and shoes. Holmes didn't say anything about it; he had breakfast and then sat in his chair and opened the newspaper; he covered his face with it, kept it that way for about a minute, and then put it down hastily, wrinkling it in a scandal of rustles and his wide eyes were on Watson who thinking himself safe behind the paper had only then dared looking at him. Watson gaped slightly seeing himself surprised with a methodically put newspaper barrier, and blushed when Holmes smiled at him. And Holmes stood up, and walked to him, and put a hand on each arm of Watson's chair and kissed him.

But only a moment later Watson barked his name – Holmes! Having gripped him by his shirt he forced him back.

Holmes' eyes widened, stepping back now on his own account. He turned around, it seemed he would leave the room, leaving Watson to feel painfully guilty. – I'm sorry Holmes, Watson spoke up before he could. – I assure you… Suddenly his voice was breaking, tears were welling but he blinked and his eyes were achieving to turn dry, too proud and accustomed as a man to cry. – I would love to… I'm attracted to you! 'shameful', but I would never… is a notch too wrong, I couldn't possibly live with myself!

Holmes ruffled his own hair and turned around, he gave him a forced smile with closed lips. – I understand.

Watson shook his head, not believing he could just "understand" and be forgiven. – Holmes, if I wasn't such a prude I just would, I idolize you even but if we can live without this one thing, and I think we can…

- You're right Watson. His face was serious and his voice determined. – You're absolutely right and I don't hold it against you; I told you you could take it back. I'm leaving now, but it's not because I'm angry, I just have to leave for the moment.

Watson nodded, his face flushing completely. – It's alright.

Holmes forced a smile of closed lips on his face again, and with that he turned, leaving for his room.

When returning from attending his practice, he was hearing Holmes' grunts and some muffled thuds; he knew that way that Holmes was boxing against his punching sack in his bedroom. He was being careful in his motions and gestures even if Holmes wasn't seeing him, too guilty and afraid of stoking the situation; he realized his steps weren't making any sound, as if he had been tip-toeing; he tried to relax and sat on his chair with louder sound.

Thirty minutes later Holmes appeared at their living room, shirtless and dripping sweat. – Good night Doctor. He said with such naturality that it needed be fake; he crossed the living room to go fill himself a glass of water. He gulped, which Watson didn't hear, but then panted which was loud enough, gulped again and panted; that went on also for the second glass.

- Good night. Watson had answered hesitantly. He believed Holmes had emerged half naked to tantalize him, but also doubted it; Watson couldn't think straight when feelings of the sort were involved. After closing his eyes once in frustration he was refusing to do it again, all he had achieved was getting a more fixed image of Holmes' sweaty torso.

Holmes stood up in front of him, with his hands on his hips and his chest still a visual testimony of his hyperventilation. – Two of them knew Mrs. Lowell, only one of them was racist. Turns out she was a dangerous woman who was part of their assaulting band of three, after a very good loot she sold them out to the police over past assaults and fled to London. We don't know what happened with the stolen goods, we believe she squandered them once in the form of money. In jail they lost their families, their wives left them, and when they were able to escape they decided to leave the country to rest safe, and also they thought it would be good to find her and take revenge, so they came here. Case closed.

Watson was excited, he realized it after all that had happened now openly; he was trying not to look at Holmes' torso while he spoke, though all of his body was tingling with the notion; he was also finding Holmes quite endearing, boxing and solving cases and speaking to him as a friend. He smiled at him and nodded, a gesture that said he had listened and also that he agreed with being friends as before. – You're always right. He threw in a complement, still trying to make amends.

Holmes smiled back, but his mouth was still closed. – I am going to sleep now old boy.

- Have a good night.

- You too.

And he was gone.

Two weeks after in the morning Watson came out of his room and heard again Holmes' grunts and the thuds of the sack. He went to the living room and stopped short: two suitcases were by Holmes' chair.

Over those two weeks nothing had gone back to normal; uncomfortable silences used to fill their time together by the fire; Holmes would look at him with longing eyes sometimes which it seemed he couldn't help; Watson's hand would shiver while holding his glass of brandy, the knocks of the ice making it evident; Watson would look at himself in the mirror wondering what Holmes could possibly see in him, the truth being that he knew he was good-looking, almost in extreme, golden hair, big blue eyes, hard manly but thin shape, symmetric face, women used to smile at him or hide their smile from him; and then he was wondering if Holmes was that superficial. In his sleep, or even before sleep, Holmes used to be naked on his chair with a shameless wide grin, "I love you" he murmured once and Watson shivered against his mattress. He didn't confess but he prayed for forgiveness to God, he couldn't help himself he told him, "please", he had asked, "please make the thoughts go away". But overall they tried to bring things back to normality, and they were attaining it to some degree.

Holmes emerged his torso naked and dripping sweat, Watson was having breakfast. – What are those suitcases about?

Holmes was still standing by the door, and he wasn't moving. – I bought them yesterday.

- What for?

Holmes sighed and finally walked, sitting in his own chair. – I've been offered a case in France.

- And you're taking it. How long will you be gone you think?

- I don't know Watson.

Watson finally put his glass of milk down, his fist resting on the table. – How come? He decided to remain innocent and hopeful of the best.

- It is a case handed to me by the French government itself; and they are offering me other cases already, they asked me to go, and if I felt comfortable I would have a permanent post created just for me, as consultant detective for France's police forces.

- But you wouldn't want that!, would you? A permanent post you would have to solve any problem, as ridiculous as you found it!

Holmes scratched his nape and then took off his hand brusquely. – Probably not. He answered fast. Then he paused for a longer time; Watson was looking at him with very wide eyes, noticing his reluctance, his desire to leave. – I think I might stay there Watson. He finally said.

Watson plunged back in his chair. He didn't say anything, and Holmes didn't either, for about ten minutes.

Finally Watson decided this wasn't the moment to avoid being assertive, things that needed to be talked about should be talked about. – Why? Is this because of… he didn't know how to continue, he chose a word that didn't sound good to his ears: - us?

Holmes looked at him until then, his fingers, of both hands, tapped the arms of his chair rhythmically, stopped. – Partly. I can't live like this Watson.

- You said you were always going to be my friend.

- I didn't mean I was always going to live with you. Before Watson could attempt to refute him Holmes continued. – Homosexuality isn't illegal in France Watson. If it isn't you it will have to be someone else. I can't love a woman, you know it, and I'm old, and I don't want to marry, but I've changed my mind about that Watson, I do want a partner or a relationship sometime, just sometime if not for forever. I am beginning to find logical exercise not as altogether satisfying.

Watson was looking down, unable to accept it, thinking it wouldn't happen. – So you're leaving then.

- It seems so.

- When?

- Today.

His face snapped up, he grimaced with a snarl. – Some friend you are! You're leaving today and you tell me today.

- What's the point in saying it before?

- You're determined to making me suffer aren't you! He shouted, scowling.

Holmes only shrugged in response.

Watson insisted, in the only solid safe argument he had. – But this post… what about your freedom to do what you want in your job?

- I can be an independent consultant detective there too.

- What time are you leaving?

Holmes stood up then. – Now, right after I take a shower. Watson looked at him, from head to toe and back, still scowling, still without accepting it. – Don't worry, I left enough money for you to cover my part of the rent for six months…

- I don't want your money. Watson said scathingly, interrupting him that way from saying where he had left it.

- It is only fair, I am leaving as you said without really advising you; and I left it to Mrs. Hudson, it is done.

Until then reality seemed to sink down, he was really leaving, if he had left money to Mrs. Hudson he was really leaving. He found him so hot standing there, half naked and humid, he left looking for another man, Paris, the city of romance, the most brilliant man in the world or at least, that he would ever know, he could stop him…

- You are not leaving anywhere! Watson declared, imperative.

- I don't think you can stop me Watson.

- You win! You've rightfully manipulated me! Stay, I'll do whatever you want! Stay!, I'm not that much of a prude.

They looked into each other's eyes; the proposition was out there, with an air of gross indecency to it. – I don't want you to concede only because you don't want me to leave.

Watson inhaled deeply, somewhat exasperated that he wouldn't give him a break, because he was sure he understood. – It's not only because of that and you know it. I accept! I have a wide enough culture to know it isn't necessarily wrong, and I've done wrong things before anyway, this will be much more worthy of my misbehaving, I was only trying to be a grown up…

Holmes smirked then, two fast steps and seconds later he was kissing Watson. Watson forced himself to relax, he surrounded Holmes' neck with his arms, and next thing he knew Holmes was sitting astride him and he opened his eyes and realized Holmes had lost all sense of himself, and so he smirked, and Holmes smirked back still lips against lips. And Watson separated minimally from the wet kiss to peck both of Holmes' then closed lips, and he repeated it, and he was seeing that Holmes couldn't open his eyes. And Holmes shifted his head to the other side and insisted on deepening the kiss, pushing Watson's upper body against the back of his chair with his own; he barely separated again only to whisper – How can this be wrong?, fighting still against any tad of doubt that Watson could have, and he had his mouth in Watson's again. Watson couldn't but agree, after Holmes' question he was losing all sense of himself too.

- You were most shamelessly manipulating me weren't you? He asked in between the kiss, his voice low.

- Anything to make you admit of just how much you need me Doctor.

- So nothing was true?

- I didn't think I would need to leave.

Holmes' shoulder blades were shifting against his palms; he enjoyed it so much he didn't care of nothing else.

- Holmes! Watson called at a later opportunity; Holmes finally opened his eyes. Watson's hands on his sides were trembling, he was so very nervous. – Do you feel like getting drunk?

- We don't have to do anything more right now Watson.

And that's when he saw the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. – I know.

Holmes smirked back. – 'Til we're tipsy.

- Yes…

Holmes stood up and was walking to the door. He raised an arm that stated there was an idea, talking to Watson. – Ice!

- Indeed. Watson was going to the other side of the room – Glasses until it is bottle time.

- Certainly! He opened the door and screamed randomly at the stairs. – Mrs. Hudson we need ice!

Mrs. Hudson brought the ice, which Holmes took from her grasp at the door, said thank you, shut the door and turned the lock. When turning a bottle and two glasses were on the table, and an expectant Watson was sitting in his chair.

- Oh! Watson exclaimed raising an index, he went for the Arabian slipper on the chimney and filled Holmes' pipe for him, he put it between the detective's lips 'he was getting used to this too fast' and sat back down.

They drank and smoked and drank; and when Watson began feeling abnormally happy he stood up, took the last gulp of his glass and walked to Holmes. Holmes didn't know what he was up to, but clearly he was up to something, Watson raised Holmes' head by the chin, Holmes understood then why Watson hadn't swallowed his last gulp; he put a knee between Holmes's legs and getting closer, and a bit closer, he opened Holmes's lips with his thumb and served him a gulp of brandy in a stream from his mouth. Holmes smiled, he pushed himself up the chair slightly and his tongue could lick Watson's bottom lip; Watson surrounded Holmes' neck again then, and Holmes trapped his waist in his arms and they kissed ardently, wet and sloppily. Watson sat on him this time. Holmes entangled his fingers in his blond hair, which he had always adored. Holmes didn't know when they had started breathing like dogs after a chase; he heard it when it was already too loud.

Watson half gasped, half moaned, huskily, at which Holmes' hand on his side tightened and he decided to breathe his neck through his mouth. Holmes' lips and breath on his neck only made him gasp again, his tongue in his ear made him moan. Holmes let one of his hands slide over his thigh and he stick his front to the side of Watson's, looking at the side of his face through eyes of heavy lids. Watson closed his eyes and hugged Holmes properly, to stand up and grab the bottle, sitting on the table. They passed the bottle forward and back.

- I couldn't have believed that you would like me Holmes. He said passing the bottle once, his body was a bit hunched over. Holmes was gulping. – You're too perfect.

Holmes cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand. – Me?

- Yes. You.

- Really Watson, you flatter me with exaggeration.

Watson ignored this objection, he continued with his own train of thought instead. - I am really in love with you… Really, if they send us to jail you can manage to settle us in the same cell can't you?

Holmes didn't answer, but with an expression of deep cool astonishment he surrounded Watson's low back with his arm and pulled him back to him, kissing him again. If they hadn't been kissing Watson would have said something about how he felt that Holmes was his man, in tune still with his train of thought. In between the kiss Holmes murmured – I love you.

Watson rubbed Holmes' groin unintentionally, when resettling as he was, sitting on him; at this Holmes immediately separated his whole upper body from him, trying to calm down, he continued with the scant conversation. – We should have visited Lestrade today for I don't remember what; we had rendez-vous after all… But – he groaned – I've stood him up before, even if I hadn't… You see my point?

Watson shrugged a shoulder and pouted, both in the very earthy manner Holmes liked him best - Really?, his face was drawing an untidy grin of thoughtlessness that was verging on rudeness.

Holmes chuckled once and only nodded, his face a very open "what are we gonna do about it".

Exhilarated with their new relationship, Watson tried to appease his anxiety by finding all types of ways of sinking deeper into the tingling feeling of being taken for good. – You should start calling me John. He continued out of subject.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. – John. He tried its sensation at leaving his lips.

- Do you like my name?

Holmes felt settled down enough to kiss him again. He thought he would answer but the sight of Watson's face between his hands forbid him, sending him instead straight to kiss him again and thoroughly feel the texture of his hair against his palms and between his fingers.

Maybe it was the futility of the question what had him finally giving all his attention on what had them in the current situation, but when he considered answering again he instead found himself laying Watson carefully on the carpet, with him above.

Watson whimpered, excited, he barely considered it should probably make him nervous, scared, his inhibitions were depleted by alcohol; this was anyway what they both knew he had planned when suggesting getting drunk.

Holmes began kissing his jaw, his ear and his neck, passion increased with a most rich feeling in his chest; at last he replied: - I like all of you John, I like all of you.

Instead of a complicity chuckle when hearing his name, what came out from his throat was a cut moan. Holmes then began unbuttoning Watson's shirt; frugal attire with which it was only rendered the honor for him to look at Watson, before he got out and preened himself with a confining vest, a choking tie, a coat impeccable in its length, a classy hat and what not; Watson didn't know he was saying he knew himself good-looking.

Watson was fit, having a muscular complexion by nature, leaving the army hadn't undermined it one bit; Holmes was then feeling the bulks of them and the fallen lines between one and the other; Watson was massaging Holmes' scalp while he did that, outstripped by the nicety of it.

When Holmes kissed his pectoral it was like an electric bolt branching in his veins; he panted finding his echo in Holmes. Holmes then sniffed his scent while he went to kiss the middle of his chest; with his acute sense of smell this action was for him, even more erotic than it would have been for any other person; that too was like an electric bolt, with a whimper he realized those were very simple gestures and yet he already felt he couldn't take it anymore; so he said it, excusing himself, unaware of its dirty tone. – You make me so hot.

This time it was Holmes who gasped, he looked at Watson before beginning to peck down the middle of his stomach, and warned him, muttering: - Don't talk like that. The kisses in the middle of his stomach seemed to contradict him, but they weren't; Holmes didn't want to moan because of dirty talk.

By the end of the whole exchange, both of them naked were rubbing against each other, what from the window or to Mrs. Hudson from the little hole in the door (if she had been spying) would seem like Holmes was fucking Watson. Watson had felt his reason would abandon him as he had slipped Holmes' pants and underwear off him, feeling the tight curve of his buttocks.

Their pants were fast and loud, and the effort was making them sweat. Watson was passing a leer all over naked Holmes, down and back, who was looking down at their erect members rubbing, and sometimes closing his eyes and moving his head in rapture; his fingers were digging in Holmes' hips; he wanted to tell him he looked like a lion but Holmes had forbidden him speaking like that.

Suddenly Watson screamed but Holmes wasn't unsettled, having felt the warm thick liquid splash over his abdomen; distracted, out of his mind he seemed to wipe it off with his right hand while he continued rubbing himself against Watson's hip and stomach and his yet hard member. His hand then completely dirty, distracted, out of his mind he put at the back of Watson's head while he inclined down on him, having prevented his own orgasm which he now experienced trembling against him; Watson still received plenty spurs of tingling pleasure at feeling Holmes' quivering skin against his own.

He squeezed Holmes' body in his arms just when he had relaxed a little, a feeling of possession overtaking him in a way which bestowed him of a potency so great he had never experienced, suddenly he was feeling an undirected jealousy with what couldn't be called other way than rage; his arm shifted so his forearm posed gently over Holmes' head, as if stating to no one that it wasn't him he was angry with, when he would ask him whispering, stuck to his ear: - Have you ever been with another man Holmes?

Holmes shook his head in the narrow space that was allowed to him; Watson relaxed, turning to be amazed at the intensity of every single sensation he resented regarding Holmes; it was impressive, something that only him and his macabre cases had made him feel before. Holmes suddenly lifted himself in what Watson thought was a most enthralling push up; he looked at Watson continuing his response. – I have never been able to love anyone but you, man or woman, you're all I have and all I'll ever have. Then Holmes supported his hand in his head, his elbow beside Watson's head, he took Watson's right hand with his own. – So you better stick with me now Doctor, I will have none of your flirtatiousness with our female clients anymore.

Watson grinned glad and amused to see that Holmes and he were at least at the moment having something in common: a crazy irrational attack of jealousy. – Of course I will, I've forgotten about Mary, and I don't remember a single client worthy of my attention, man or female. Then his lids fell halfway on his eyes again and he continued in some kind of purr. – All I remember is how you looked only thirty seconds ago.

Holmes couldn't help himself from smiling; however his lips were resting closed. He then seemed to comb Watson's hair, damp. He exploded in a low laughter. – I am very drunk. He confessed. – Are you drunk?

Watson moved his pupils to reach the top of his eyes, to look out the high and wide window that showed the street. – I hadn't been this drunk since I bet my part of the rent on White Nose three days ago.

Holmes sighed in frustration. – What a coward you are! And when were you planning on telling me? And I here thinking you had only bet a little, you tricked me Doctor.

- I did not such thing, how could I possibly?

- Generally when you bet all your earnings away and you come home you go immediately to your room avoiding all chat after doing some nice thing for me, like bringing me tobacco or inviting me to the opera. That day instead you asked me to play for you and then to tell you all about my experiments of the morning.

- You looked positively depressed, I found no better way to be nice than to get you out of your misery by pretending interest in the possible way to know the exact tonality of hair.

- You miss the importance of such a finding.

- You miss to understand that I don't care for important things, unless they are big and flamboyant and of obvious consequences.