A/N: Surprisingly enough, this is not a romance story. Just give it a go.

The Adventure of the Detective's Marriage

The temptation is, in this long and somewhat varied account of my many adventures with Sherlock Holmes, to include each and every mystery he had a hand in solving. This would, however, serve only to bore the reader, as I feel I have occupied already far too much of people's time with my somewhat inadequate accounts. There have, of course, been many other hindrances – my friend's aversion to fame or publicity not least among them.

The following account serves perhaps more as an insight into the mind of Sherlock Holmes rather than his methods. It was with the closing of the following case that I realised what I had not done before as to just how far he was willing to go for both the 'love of the art' and for the protection of fellow human beings.

The following events took place shortly after my marriage, and I had not seen Holmes in many weeks. I freely admit that, in those first few months of wedded bliss, the lonely figure of Sherlock Holmes had scarcely entered my mind. Events, however, were destined to change that.

For it was upon returning from a visit to my wife's family that I received one of the greatest shocks in my life. This shock came in the form of an announcement in the Herald newspaper.

"My goodness, John!" My wife exclaimed, staring down at the page. "Look at this!"

I stared, dumbly, at the headline:

It is with pleasure that Sherlock Holmes and Catherine St Clair announce their marriage

"Heavens." I murmured, quite unable to say more. Perhaps my shock was not unwarranted: Sherlock Holmes had to be one of the most ineligible bachelors in London. True, from the point of view of a stranger he had many attractive prospects: his monetary means were far from feeble, and I will admit that if he was not a wholly attractive figure then he was possessed of rather unusual features and careful charm that might attract the fairer sex. But the dainty faces behind the parasols could hardly guess that behind the honeyed tones and gentle looks there lay perhaps the most infuriating companion a man or woman could share a home with.

His sleeping habits were irregular, at best, he would rush off – often without warning – on a case and perhaps be absent for days, he was hopelessly untidy, he smoked the most foul cigars, would perform – in his own living room! – malodorous chemistry experiments, and he was prey to the blackest swings of mood when between cases. So it was with some surprise that I discovered a woman had the patience to marry him – particularly that woman.

Catherine St Clair was the favourite debutanté of the season, famed for both her beauty and her wit. She was perhaps what one might call an 'independent soul': it was well-known that she had turned down many attractive marriage proposals – even from distant royalty – on her whims. So now, when she had the pick of any young bachelor in London – why in heavens name had she chosen Holmes?

"I ought to go see him." I murmured, frowning down at the offending announcement. "Congratulate him, if nothing else." But still I had a nagging doubt – as so often in my long and intimate association with Sherlock Holmes – that there was more to this mysterious situation than met the eye.

888

Within an hour I was once more in our old rooms in Baker Street, and for a moment it was almost as though nothing had changed. But then I looked round, and slowly the touch of a woman in the room began to dawn on me. I am perhaps slower at such deductions than my friend, but nevertheless I spied the flower-vase on the sill, new, tasteful curtains, and even – I fear I was somewhat stung by this last point – the new, effeminate upholstery covers on my old chair. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I felt something akin to jealousy as I looked at that chair.

But there was one thing in the room that was quite unchanged, and that was the man who sat in the chair opposite my own and looked up at me with a wry smile.

"Well, Watson." He said, his voice faintly mocking. "We seem to have fallen upon evil times." He held up his left hand, upon which a gold wedding band glittered, and surveyed it with an air of quiet incredulity. "Really, Watson, who would have thought it? But stop me, old chap, I'm being insufferably rude. Do take your old seat."

It may have been a trick of the shadows – I believe I have noted before that Holmes preferred to have the light towards his clients when carrying out his often extraordinary interviews – but I am sure his face alighted with amusement as I sat down with distaste upon the now-florid chair. Yes, he was in one of his most mischievous moods. Was this the effect that marriage had on him? If so, I understood why he hadn't tried it sooner.

"My current behaviour is nothing to do with my recent marriage, Watson." He said dryly. I threw my hands up in the air. At times Holmes put me beyond exasperation.

"Doubtless you intend to waylay me from my initial plan for the conversation by throwing in a bit of mind-reading, Holmes?"

My companion – no, Mrs Catherine's companion – laughed in his hearty, silent manner.

"Are you not going to ask how I managed it?" He asked cheerfully, rubbing his hands together. I watched in fascination: I had only ever known him to seem so alive when on a case.

"I fear that you intend to tell me whether I like it or not." I said carelessly, but in truth I was just as eager as ever to learn more of his seemingly-magical methods. As always, Holmes was the master. His eyes twinkled at my feeble attempt at dissimulation.

"Indeed, Watson, I see you are just as eager as ever, despite your apparent lack of enthusiasm. Well, I shall humour you. First, you glanced at the new upholstery – courtesy, of course, of Mrs Holmes, since I would never choose such a florid pattern. Then you glanced at my wedding ring – further proof that you were musing over my marriage. Then you glanced up at my face, and gave one of your silent sighs, as you often do when I appear to you to be in a strange mood. You glanced towards the mantelpiece and the cocaine bottle, but then gave a tiny shake of the head and returned to contemplating the pattern on your chair. Ergo, you had come to the conclusion that my peculiar cheerfulness was down to the influences of my young wife and not of the drug. Am I correct?"

I nodded reluctantly, before frowning.

"Yet is it the drug?" I asked sharply. Holmes leaned back in his chair, his affable air dispersing instantly.

"That is no business of yours." He said coldly. "Really, Watson, you are an insufferable fellow. What right have you – who so readily abandoned me for a wife – in coming here and sticking your nose in where it is not wanted?"

I was bitterly hurt, and rose to go. As I did, I spoke in as firm and steady tone as I could muster.

"Well, Holmes, if that is really how you see me then I feel I must go. Know only that it was only to congratulate you and Mrs Holmes that I made this visit, and that it was only out of concern for your health that I asked after the cocaine." I placed my hat on my head and took my cane in hand, but Holmes stopped me with a weary word.

"Stay, Watson. I apologise for my earlier words. They were not called for, and unduly harsh." There was something in his voice that made me turn back, and as I studied his worn, somewhat vulnerable expression I realised that for once I was the one who knew best what to do – Holmes, faced with loving another human being, was as lost as any of the poor, pathetic fools who went to him in hope of finding a 'light in the darkness'.

So, with a sigh, I returned to my chair. I allowed Holmes a moment to compose himself, and then I looked back up at him and said;

"I take it Mrs Holmes is not in?" Holmes shook his head.

"No – ah." He cocked his head to one side. "But unless I am very much mistaken, that is her step upon the stair."

888

The first thing that struck me about the woman who entered was her youth. She was tall and fair, but not queenly: there was something in the sparkle of her eyes and the boastful set of the lips that still spoke of the beauty of the child – the princess – rather than the woman. I admit to my shame my heart went out to this burgeoning butterfly trapped in the dreary confines of Baker Street with the cold figure of Sherlock Holmes.

"Madame." I rose to offer her my chair, but she waved me off.

"No, no." She said, smiling. She studied me for a moment, before seating herself on the chair beside Holmes. "Why, you must be Dr Watson. Am I right?"

"Indeed, Madame." I spoke somewhat stiffly in the presence of this fair maiden – I feared that if I did not I would not be able to keep my curiosity in check. But the young lady simply laughed, a gentle tinkling of bells.

"Please, Dr Watson, you can relax around me as easily as you would around my husband." It was with abject fascination that I watched her hand link loosely with Holmes's. This was the man who had sworn never to marry 'lest it should bias his judgement'?

"I fear that Watson never had much opportunity to relax when working with me." Holmes said with an ironic smile. "He was always far too busy worrying after my safety." The quick grey eyes rested on me for a moment, and I was sure he was trying to communicate something to me. But what?

The lady rose, and the contact was broken.

"I met an old friend in town, and she asked us to dinner tonight. You do not mind, Sherlock?"

A brief wince crossed the face of the man opposite me, but he nodded reluctantly.

"Not at all." He said gruffly. The lady smiled slightly at his expression, and turned to the door.

"I told her I would telegram her with our reply. Well, Dr Watson, it was a pleasure meeting you." With a dainty nod, she left the room. I waited until her steps had faded away before bursting out:

"Really, Holmes, why did you marry the girl?" Holmes surveyed me with some surprise before replying.

"I am not entirely sure." He shrugged. "She seemed... appropriate."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Oh, come, come, Watson. Can you not refrain from answering logic with emotion? You ought to know me well enough by now, Watson, to know that any decision I make will be with my brain and not my heart."

"But marriage, Holmes?" I was lost. I thought of my own wife, and I could not align the love I felt for her with the calm, clinical man in front of me. How can you take a woman as your wife when there is nothing but logic in your heart?

"Dear Watson." Holmes shook his head and surveyed me with a rare fond smile. "Ever the romanticist." It was a rare thing indeed for Holmes to speak to me in such a way, and I was once more struck by the curious energy of the man. But perhaps it was a mystery for another night, for after that Holmes turned the conversation to safer ground, and we spoke of the earlier cases we had shared until his wife returned.

888

I did not have occasion to visit Holmes for a good few weeks after that, preoccupied as I was by the autumn onslaught of minor complaints from patients. My wife, also, urged me not to meddle.

"You have said yourself, many times, that Holmes will only speak when he is ready." She said gently, and I bowed to her quiet reasoning. Perhaps one of the greatest flaws in the logic of Sherlock Holmes is that he quite overlooks the value of the intuition of women.

I did, however, at last find enough time during my busy rounds to drop into Baker Street. I was disappointed to find that Holmes was out, but Mrs Hudson showed me up regardless. I sat down awkwardly in my old chair and noted with a brief smile that the flowery upholstery had now spread to the sofa. I settled myself in for a long wait.

My dozing was interrupted, however, by a dry sob emanating from the room that had once been mine. I jerked awake, frowning towards the door. I had forgotten to ask Mrs Hudson whether Mrs Holmes was in. The sobs began to increase in volume, their owner clearly unaware of my presence.

I rose, crossed over to the door, and knocked gently upon the wood. I heard a sudden shuffling on the other side of the door.

"Mr Holmes?" A voice called. "Is that you?" I frowned, confused at the formality of her words.

"No, it is Dr Watson." I said. "Is something troubling you, dear lady? You sound quite distressed."

The door opened, and a lovely, tear-stained face gazed up at me. She looked so troubled that I hastened to sit her down and pour her a glass of brandy. She accepted it with dull eyes and a trembling hand.

"Now, my dear lady," I said, as gently as I could, "if there is anything I can do, please, tell me."

"Thankyou." She said. "You are very kind." She took a long draught of the brandy, and I, the hopeless fool that I was, blundered on in an attempt to comfort her.

"You know, Holmes can be a cold man at times, my dear, but I am sure he does not mean to harm your feelings." The lady looked up at me with the ghost of a smile.

"Oh, doctor, my tears are nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes. Believe me, without him they would be far worse."

I shook my head, unsure of what to make of this curious statement. I waited, but Holmes did not return that night, and it was only with a sense of guilt that I left the lady on her own in the lonely rooms.

It was only after I had left that a thought occurred to me. What had she been doing in the spare room, when she and Holmes were to all intents and purposes husband and wife?

888

A/N: Please tell me what you think!