Disclaimer: I own no part of Sherlock Holmes or John Watson, ACD or BBC alike, and make no profit off of this.
A/N: Title is taken from the Barenaked Ladies song of the same name. I suggest you look up those lyrics or the song itself, because it's beautiful in its way.
Most of the stories I record of my life with Sherlock Holmes – some with minor alterations for proprieties sake – are fit for public consumption. The tales of action, murder, and intrigue leave my readers breathless, flabbergasted, and writing either directly to me or to The Strand beseeching me for the next mystery.
I do not think it is any sort of secret that I am beyond elated by my life here with Holmes and the adventures it grants the both of us. But this particular story is not about that, and it will never be published for our readers to partake in.
It is a story about murder - because so many of our cases are – but above all, it is a story about love. That is why I am writing it here, in my personal journal that is always hidden below a false bottom in my desk. I must confess: I hope that one day someone will find this and read all of the wonderful aspects of my amazing life with Holmes that I dare not share with anyone at this time. It is also my hope that both Holmes and I are long since gone before that happens.
Anyway, enough dallying, eh? To the important part, then.
As previously mentioned, the chases and murders keep us wonderfully entertained, but they are not my favorite part of our relationship. It is the quiet mornings as we sit together drinking our tea and reading the paper. It is the secretive kisses and whispered declarations of devotion in the night.
The morning of this case Holmes and I were sitting at our table, drinking tea and reading, while our feet discreetly played against each other out of view. It was a risk we dared not take most of the time, but my companion was feeling a bit sentimental that morning, and I have never been known to refuse him much of anything.
When the knocking on the front door interrupted our solace, Holmes gave me a look that was a mix of regret and excitement as we pulled our feet back underneath our own chairs, away from the other. I gave him a reassuring smile as we heard Mrs. Hudson greeting the guest before leading them upstairs.
"Inspector Lestrade," Holmes greeted the man just before he came in to view.
"Mr. Holmes," Inspector Lestrade nodded as he removed his hat from his head and stepped in to the flat. Mrs. Hudson turned quickly and removed herself back to her own flat downstairs.
"What seems to be the trouble?" Holmes asked, standing from his chair and I followed suit.
"Two men have been found dead in an alley," Inspector Lestrade replied.
"And? Come on, man, there must be more to make it intriguing!" Holmes entreated.
The Inspector looked nervously between the pair of us, just briefly, before swallowing hard and continuing, "They were found near a Turkish Bath. There was a green carnation in each man's lapel."
My own stomach dropped at the implication as my companion's face fell in to a hard mask of determination.
He nodded once, sharply, "Lead the way, Inspector," said he and we were on our way within moments.
The hansom ride was silent as Holmes and I sat with a respectful distance between us, Inspector Lestrade facing opposite and clearly trying not to appear as though he were uneasy. It has been my suspicion for some time now that the Inspector is aware of the true nature of mine and Holmes' relationship, but he has had the good grace to neither mention it nor refuse to request our services. Much like our dear Mrs. Hudson assuredly knows the truth and has not kicked us out of the flat; in fact, she seems rather more pleased than at the start of our acquaintance as her smiles have only grown fonder throughout the years.
We arrived to find the bodies on their backs, side by side on the cobblestones, and Inspector Jones hovering over them.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes," Inspector Jones greeted with false pleasantry, never having taken much of a liking to my companion.
"Inspector Jones," Holmes greeted coolly in return, a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement, as his eyes never left the bodies on the ground.
As Holmes began his own investigation, Inspector Jones approached Inspector Lestrade and myself to fill us in on what he had discovered.
"I believe our first inclination is most assuredly correct: these men were homosexuals; freaks," Inspector Jones spit out disdainfully.
My left hand clenched at my side at his tone, but I struggled to keep the offense I felt off of my face lest it arouse his suspicions. I saw Inspector Lestrade glance warily at me out of the corner of his eye before he chuckled half-heartedly and agreed, "Yes," quite awkwardly.
Inspector Jones, for his part, did not appear to notice that neither of us were very receptive to his tone, so he continued on as though we were in on some joke with him, "From what I can figure, the two perverts left that bathhouse there," he said while pointing to the nearby building, "probably after they engaged in their indecent behavior after having just met, and were murdered on the spot," he finished speaking almost as though he believed they deserved to be killed.
My hand clenched harder and my teeth set. I could not speak, for I could not trust what types of words would come out of my mouth were I to open it.
"Wrong," Holmes called harshly from near the bodies. Though he did not turn to face us, the rigid line of his back and the icy quality of his voice let me know immediately that he felt the same about Inspector Jones' words as I.
"I beg your pardon?" Inspector Jones questioned, his mirth quickly melting away at the one word.
"I said: wrong," Holmes enunciated quite clearly as he gracefully stood from his crouched position next to the bodies and came to stand among us.
"And how do you figure?" Inspector Jones asked with offense.
My companion sighed heavily before explaining, "They had just come from the Turkish Bath, that is true, but they did not meet each other within its walls. This pair knew each other prior to their visit; in fact, they went in together."
"How can you tell?" Inspector Lestrade asked with awe.
"Their hands. I cannot be the only one who noticed that they were entwined?" Holmes asked while looking between the two Inspectors curiously. It was clear, by their faces alone, that they had indeed not taken notice. Holmes breathed out through his nose in frustration before continuing, "They were attacked upon leaving the bathhouse. They were beaten and both died of fatal head wounds caused by a blunt object. Their last act, their last thought, was to hold on to and comfort each other."
"You cannot be implying that they were in love," Inspector Jones scoffed, raising the hackles of Holmes and myself, and I daresay those of Inspector Lestrade, as well.
Holmes' face fell in to another blank mask as his mouth formed an unhappy straight line and his eyes narrowed just slightly, "Quite," he said in a clipped manner before turning to me, "Come on, Watson, I believe we are done here."
As Holmes was leading us away from the crime scene, Inspector Lestrade called to him, "Mr. Holmes?"
Without so much as turning around or slowing his gait, he shouted back, "You are looking for two wealthy brothers. One has a cane with a handle the shape of a wolf's head. It's the murder weapon."
And just like that, we were on our way back home via another silent hansom ride.
When we entered our flat upstairs, I could hold my anger in no longer. Before I really knew what I was doing, my left hand had punched a hole through the wall next to our sofa. Within what felt like seconds, Holmes' elegant fingers of his left hand were wrapping around my tender fist, his right gently cradling my neck as he pulled the left side of my body to his front.
"John," he whispered in to my ear, pleading with me and reassuring me and claiming me all at once in this way that only he has ever possessed.
With a sob I should probably be ashamed of, I turned my body towards his. My hands went to his sides as my forehead and nose met his, our lips unspeakably close to the kiss we both longed for, but it was too dangerous in the light of day. Our position was already too much.
"Sherlock," I whispered in return, my breath caressing his lips. We dared not speak the names louder for fear of discovery, but we needed the intimacy that the given names provided us, "It isn't fair," I spat.
"I know," he had agreed quietly, "Why should we have to hide? Life is far too short to live in such fear; never a breath you can afford to waste."
"I hate that no one will ever know that you are mine," I admitted quietly, feeling ashamed at my selfishness.
And then Holmes did something completely unexpected in that moment: he chuckled. Slightly offended, I pulled away so I could look at his face.
He was smiling at me in his affectionate way that only I have ever seen.
"Oh, my dear Watson," he began fondly, "with all of those fanciful stories you have written about us for The Strand, do you honestly think anyone would ever dream of separating us?"
"Those stories are not like that," I negated sadly.
His smile had not faltered, however, "And yet you have linked us to each other in the most undeniable way, where it's only natural to mention us both if one mentions us at all: Holmes and Watson."
And right there, in the light of day with the door open where Mrs. Hudson could stumble upon us at any moment, I kissed Sherlock Holmes: the love of my life.
And that, dear reader, is a moment I would like to never forget but could never dream of immortalizing in The Strand. I just hope that whenever it is that you are reading this, you can accept the love that Holmes and I have held for each other these many, happy years.
Know that I have never been ashamed of my love for him, merely frustrated at the climate we have lived in. It has been a dangerous time to love the way we do, but truthfully? Danger has always been a staple in every aspect of our lives, so why not this, too?
A/N: Honestly, I've been wanting to write a Victorian Johnlock story for ages (since I started reading the ACD stories almost two years ago) but I've been too nervous that I couldn't manage the Victorian quality of writing. Turns out I'm enough of a Ravenclaw to at least kind of pull it off - at least, I hope I did!
Anyway, thank you so much for taking the time to read this; I hope you were able to find some enjoyment here.
As always, I would love to hear your thoughts via comment or constructive criticism!
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