"Watson, I think you will be interested in our guest for breakfast." Holmes stated from the window, telegram in his hand, "he's an old friend of mine."
Watson perked up at this, as whilst Holmes referred to a number of people as old acquaintances, he had never yet heard him call one a friend. "Then I shall be very glad to meet him. I imagine we'll have a lot in common."
"I imagine you won't, but I think you'll find him much to your taste all the same. There he is now." Holmes waved to some presence in the street, and then moved to sit down at the breakfast table, where Mrs. Hudson had just left the morning's sustenance.
The bell rang, and Mrs. Hudson came to announce a Mr. Trevor, a name completely unfamiliar to Watson. A man of about Holmes' age entered the room after that, nearly as tall as the detective, and slender as well, sporting a fashionably cut moustache and clothing that betrayed not only his station but his own attention to his appearance. He was, in a word, striking. Not, of course, that Watson would entertain such thoughts about another man. Often. He stood to introduce himself, but was interrupted by Holmes standing at the same time.
"Watson, this is Victor Trevor," he smiled warmly at the other man, "Victor, this is doctorWatson."
Watson had no idea why the 'doctor' part had been emphasised, but put it down to an old joke between friends and left it at that. He shook the man's hand, smiling at the firm grip and wondering why he'd ever assumed that a man who Holmes would call friend might be anything less than exemplary of humanity.
"You haven't changed at all, Sherlock. Uh. Holmes." Victor eyed Watson warily after his slip.
"Watson is well aware that I am not the most regular of men, Victor," Holmes continued to smile at the other man, "I'm sure he would understand your preference for familiarity."
"It doesn't disturb me in the least," Watson offered with a smile, "I'd be happy for you to call me John, if it would make you more comfortable."
Holmes and Victor shared an indecipherable look, and Watson rather felt like he was being left out of some joke or other. He didn't allow this to unsettle him, though, and took up a seat at the side of the table, leaving the ends free to facilitate conversation between the other two men. And, if he were being honest, to force Holmes to sit by him. The two men settled into the remaining chairs without any complaint, and they all began on an excellent breakfast.
"If it wouldn't trouble you too much, Victor, I should be obliged if you told me of the difficulty you have run into. You can trust Watson's discretion as you would my own."
Watson could feel Victor eyeing him warily. "Isn't this the fellow who writes about your work?"
"I understand your concern, but Watson is yet to publish anything in which there are any identifying details of real people. And I am certain he would be more than happy to comply with a personal request not to put your particular problem into print." Holmes advised the other man through a mouthful of toast.
"Good, because I cannot afford for my stupidity to be any more known than it already is," Victor picked at a piece of bacon on his plate, "it may please you to know, Sherlock, that I am very much in love."
Holmes looked up with a warm smile. "Congratulations, my friend. Tell me all about the lucky gentleman, if you'd be so kind."
Watson paused to run that sentence through his head twice more before deciding that he had heard correctly, and it had meant exactly what he had thought. The whole situation had gone from intriguing to surreal in a half-second, and Holmes and his friend were entering into a candid discussion about a male lover.
And Holmes wasn't even a little surprised. That was certainly interesting.
"His name is Samuel Lloyd, and he's from Australia," the clearly excitable man enthused, "he's wonderful, Sherlock. Kind and generous, and gorgeous, I hasten to add. And I know he cares a great deal for me, as well. I met him while I was on a business trip. He's quite wealthy of his own accord, thankfully not by way of fraud," Victor smiled self-deprecatingly at this, before continuing, "his accent makes my natural one sound outright cultured, but I find I rather like it. In short, he's perfect. We were making plans to live together, here in England; he's never been, and now that the last of his family is gone, he thought it time to move somewhere where he could live a quieter life and not fear the elements or the native animals quite so much. Practically everything there is out to get you, you know."
"Yes, Victor," Holmes interrupted kindly, "I would be obliged if you'd try to stay on track."
"Of course," the man looked only a little guilty, "I am afraid that in my excitement, I did something rather stupid. A gentleman doesn't expect his private mail to be read, but... I fear I may have been... enthusiastic in expounding upon our activities once we saw each other again." He blushed faintly at this. "Someone managed to read it, and now a gentleman, if he can be called that at all, by the name of Charles Augustus Milverton has the letter. He's threatening to go to the police if I don't give him rather more money than I can possibly get my hands on. I have only perhaps a thousand pounds to my name, and he wants ten thousand. I come to you in the hope that you will have some other means of rescuing me." Victor bit his lip shyly.
Holmes sighed softly, and looked at his friend with utmost tenderness and compassion. "Oh, Victor. You have gotten yourself into trouble, haven't you? I would happily give you the money, if I had it myself, but I can see little else I can do."
Victor nodded hastily. "It's all right. I... I suppose..."
It was obvious to Watson perhaps a half-second before it was to Holmes that Victor was about to burst into tears. The detective seemed not only startled, but greatly disturbed by his friend's distress, and ushered him over to the settee, where he tried to calm him, with mixed success.
"Holmes, might you be able to negotiate with the chap? Or threaten him with theft charges?"
Holmes shook his head, "the penalty for stealing another man's correspondence is minimal at best, and considering the contents of the letter it would be the same as not doing anything at all."
"What do you know of Milverton, then? Is it possible that he has a serious secret of his own." having forgotten completely about his shock over the man's honesty about his lover, Watson was determined to help him after his display.
"Possible, of course, but it would be very unwise for a man with secrets to take up blackmail. And he is clearly no amateur who got lucky, Watson. An amateur would never ask for as much, for fear they wouldn't get it and their only prospect would be ruined. This Milverton character, I'm afraid, seems to be quite willing to hand his information over to the authorities; he must have other leads that would benefit from the scare of seeing that failure to pay would lead to exposure. Victor, wouldn't Mr. Lloyd be able to come up with the money?"
Victor shook his head miserably. "He could never get his hands on it in time. My deadline is three days away, and I only received his letter yesterday."
Holmes, to Watson's great shock and surprise, pulled Victor close and hugged him tightly for a moment, before pulling back to rest his forehead against the other man's. "My poor, poor Victor. I am so terribly sorry about all this."
"It's all right. Two years is nothing, if it comes to that. And I am quite assured that Sam would still love me afterwards. Perhaps a little more, even; hard labour toughens a man, and he is always teasing me about my delicacy." Victor smiled weakly.
"It won't come to that," Holmes assured his old friend, "I'll do everything I can. And I fully expect to be invited to dinner for it. I should very much like to meet the man who would capture your heart so completely."
"Thank you, Sherlock. I know you'll try, and that's all I can ask of you."
"Of course," Holmes pulled back from the intimate position he had been holding with his friend. "Where are you staying?"
"Oh, well, nowhere yet. I was at an inn in Donnithorpe, sorting out the last of some family affairs, and then I got the letter and came straight here."
"Then for the next few days, my home is your home; I doubt if I'll have any need for my own bed for a while." Holmes stood and went to exchange dressing gown for coat, flying out of the room before either Watson or Victor had any chance to disagree.
Holmes' assessment that he would not be in need of his own bed for a time turned out to be quite correct, and neither man saw the detective for the three days that Victor had quoted. On his return, during the early afternoon on the third day, Holmes came inside and flopped into his armchair without a word, and looking solemn and withdrawn. He sighed defeatedly after a while, and stood to approach the nervously waiting Victor.
"I am so, so sorry, my friend," he pulled a bundle of papers out of his pocket, "we've got to be on the next train to Portsmouth. These are your tickets, and something to get by on. I've... had words with most of the major papers, so it shouldn't become too well-known, but the authorities will be after you if you're still here tomorrow. I've sent word to Mr. Lloyd to expect you. You'll be perfectly safe." Holmes handed over the papers, and amongst them Victor found, as well as a note for 500 pounds, papers that proved him to be Victor Lloyd. He smiled wryly at that, and then more honestly up at Holmes. "I do hope you'll excuse the liberty of choosing that last name for you. There's a suitcase full of things you'll need downstairs."
"Thank you, Holmes. I could never have accomplished this by myself." Victor's eyes shone slightly in the light.
Holmes smiled sadly at his friend. "We really must be going. Come along." He made his way to the door, and Victor followed him silently, waving a small goodbye to Watson as he left.
Standing on the dock, watching Victor's ship sail off into the distance, Holmes vowed that he would see Milverton brought to justice some day. For now, he only hoped that the new Mr. Lloyd would be well looked after by the original.