The secrets in the smoky room

My second story for Sherlock Holmes fanfic… hope you guys enjoyed the first one! (For those who did not get to read it, I'll be honored if you will take time to take a look at it )

My first story (The Unheard Melancholic Cry) and current stories are not closely related, but still somehow linked. But you will have no difficulty enjoying this story without reading the first. So please do sit back, relax and enjoy this episode of mystery, romance and drama!

This chapter is after John Watson's marriage. He has already moved out of 221b Baker Street and living with his wife in his practice. The narration is being held in year 1917 while the actual event was taken place in the year 1889.

Disclaimer: once again, I give full credits to the wonderful author of Sherlock Holmes, Sir Doyle. Some of my characters will be out of my own imagination, and the plot, story and majority of the details are rightfully my idea, unless stated.

Warning: this will once again contain homosexual relationship. It might be sexual or just plain romantic, but please do be warned for both types. I will warn in the start of every chapter if the romance part will dominate it (laugh). Otherwise the story will still be of Mystery nature, thus it will evolve around solving a case.

Chapter one: Hypnotized

I would never forget that day of early autumn, September 1889. I had mentioned several cases from this year, and one would agree it has truly been a busy time for my friend. What I had failed to mention, or rather tried so hard to avoid from the public, was the true reason he over worked himself. But nothing can be concealed forever, and I believe it is time for me to narrate a mystery and a tragedy yet the most fascinating story a good number of Sherlock Holmes' admirers would not be able to ever know. I would have to deal with Holmes' anger, maybe even public humiliation and perhaps for once stand in the dock; but I truly believe the time is ripe. It has been decades since the time we had shared the dwelling in 221 Baker Street, and it might just be a few more years until we will share this land before we truly part.

I had huddled in my coat as the chilly winds danced with the red, yellow and orange leaves. As the first signs of autumn warned me of a bitter winter, I hurriedly made my way to the all so familiar street. I did not wish to call for a Hanson. For a reason one would never know, I felt like fighting my way through the heavy winds and slight drizzle that had just started to fall. As I reached the door step of the quarters I had moved out of few months back, I felt the guilt swell up once again. Ignoring the voices screaming inside of me to turn back and head for home, to her, I stepped into the hallways that emitted warmth.

I did not ring any bell, but rather made my way up the seventeen steps that I have passed countless of times. 'Does Holmes know how many times he had ascended and descended this very stairs?" I forced myself to wonder just to forget of the guilt, happiness, sorrow, anger and all other emotions imaginable. My heart beat raced and my head started to spin as the scent of tobacco seeped out of the door. I stood in front of it as I slowly, half-heartedly yet passionately creaked open the door.

Holmes was always been a heavy smoker, and his pipe had never seemed to leave his hands. He would always be pictured with his clay pipe, and I could easily recall his firm, pale lips sipping in the toxic smoke. But if he was a heavy smoker before, I would say he seemed addicted to the point of dependency to the nicotine that poisoned his body alongside the cocaine and morphine. Little to my amusement, every time I would walk into the confined room of swirling blue smoke, I would find him huddled dazedly in front of the window or fireplace, either thinking hard about something or staring blankly at nothing. His sight made my heart cringe and my anger to rise, and for me to once again realize that he was a wreck of a man who has lost all things except his work.

On this particular occasion, I was please to find with rather, note the "rather", alert. He was on earth yet he was not completely here. He was there, sitting by the fire, staring into sheets of paper. His brows meet as the grey eyes frowned. He did not notice my presence until which I assumed to be half an hour. I just sat there, opposed his favorite armchair, observing him as he was observing documents. I would once again devour his black hair, his thin, delicate fingers, and his grey eyes slightly twinkling reflecting the flickers of the fire. I would once more engage myself into the sinful habits, if you may call it a habit, I have developed when I first met this man. This was the cause of the guilt, the joy, the anger, the sorrow and all the other emotions I would always feel once I am at the doorstep of this place.

"Watson, it is extremely rude to stare." said he in a half-humored tone. It was his voice that snapped me back to reality. Our eye met as he raised an eyebrow, questioning for the sake of questioning. It was just he and his peculiar sense of humor. I just laughed and gave a weak apology. It did not matter since it was not that he was after. Once we were both settled again, he lit his pipe. "I'm please that you are here, Watson. I was just about to call for you. I have a case, my dear Watson. And I am hoping you are not too busy to accompany me."

He knew that I too was a busy man, for the days were cold, and my practice was at its prime. And I was a married man, with a loving wife at home waiting for my return. He knew all this factors, and maybe even better than I do, but he still would ask. 'I am hoping you are not too busy to accompany me.' Of course I am. It was hard to even make time for this short visit.

"It's my pleasure Holmes." I said it simply. I would never be able to deny his request, especially with his slightly drowsy eyes twinkling and staring right at mine. I would always realize that I was captured by this man, bound by friendship; and for the worst, hypnotized by my emotions for this magnificent creature.

"And here it is that I miss my Watson."

-Sherlock Holmes in The Blanched Soldier