Story: Auld Reekie (3 of 5)

Author: Garonne

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The first thing I became aware of was my dear friend's voice, snapping out orders in a harsh, strained caricature of his usual tones. Upon opening my eyes, the first thing my gaze encountered was his face, which was deadly white, his eyes blazing with fear and anger.

"Don't try to move, my love," he said in a gentler voice, seeing my return to consciousness. He was kneeling beside me, pressing something into my shoulder, which burned unbearably. It was night-time, and the ground beneath me was cold, damp, mossy stone. Slowly, memories returned to me of the late-night assignation we had spied upon in the kirkyard, and the subsequent chase through the town, culminating in my being shot in this grimy courtyard.

"I've lost a lot of blood," I said vaguely.

"Hush, love." He smoothed back the hair from my cold, sweating forehead. "I don't think it's as bad as it feels."

His haggard face betrayed the lie in his words, however.

He twisted around to snap at a person or persons unseen. "Where's that damned doctor?"

"I am a doctor," I wanted to say, but it did not seem to make a great deal of sense, given the present circumstances, so I held my tongue, and let myself slip back down into the welcoming darkness.

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When I woke I was lying between clean sheets, and someone was throwing open the curtains. Cold, bright sunlight flooded into the room. I blinked for a while, and finally succeeded in distinguishing Margaret Donnelly standing by the window. She gave me a wan smile, and I noted that her eyes were red-rimmed once more.

"I'm so glad to see you're awake, sir," she cried, with surprising emphasis. "I'm so terribly, terribly sorry about what happened."

I was not sure how much she knew about the events the previous night had dealt us after her departure from the kirkyard, but she certainly seemed to have taken something to heart. A host of questions flooded into my head regarding her covert meeting the previous evening with the man who subsequently shot me. I did not quite yet feel up to giving her a coherent quizzing, however, so I instead raised myself up a little in bed and took in my surroundings.

I was in the my bedroom at the Gordons', and by the light shining through the window, I estimated the hour to be close to midday.

"I suppose I have only been out cold for one night?" I asked. "Not a whole day and a night, that is to say?"

Margaret was still staring at me, clearly on the verge of tears again. I was beginning to wonder whether that were her habitual expression. She was saved from answering by the sound of the door opening.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, the most peculiar expression on his face as he looked down at me. He came forward to stand at the foot of the bed, still in silence, while the maid excused herself and slipped out.

I eyed Holmes warily. "The doctor's been, I suppose? Another doctor, that is to say." The answer was already obvious from my professionally bandaged shoulder, but I was merely producing sound, any utterance serving to break this odd, tense silence.

Holmes nodded. "Last night, or rather in the early hours of this morning. He will call again this afternoon."

He was still standing much too far away from me, his face whiter and more haggard than could be accounted for simply by the sleepless night he had most likely passed.

I held out my hand. "Come over here, my dear fellow."

He looked down at my outstretched hand, but remained standing where he was.

I frowned. "Holmes, what is the matter? If you are in a taking because I was hurt again on one of your cases, I assure you, it's nothing serious. Why, if I had stayed here and gone on drinking whiskey, I'd probably be feeling much worse just now!" I laughed, but Holmes did not.

"I know," he said shortly. "It's merely a flesh wound. The doctor will certainly authorise you to leave your bed already this afternoon."

"Then what - "

Holmes spoke at the same time. "I've come to apologise."

I stared at him in confusion.

He went on in a low voice. "I behaved unforgivably last night. I don't know how much of it you were conscious for, but unfortunately there were many other perfectly conscious witnesses - which is the problem, of course." He began to pace up and down the room. "I lost my head completely. All I knew at the time was that you were bleeding and unconscious, and I could not bear not to cradle you in my arms. I don't even remember clearly - I only remember how terrible you looked, and how terrified I was. I'm sure I used several incriminating terms of endearment out loud, fool that I am!"

I wished that he would come over and seat himself on the bed, so that I could put my arms around him, so miserable and angry he looked. "Please don't torture yourself so, my dear man! I assure you, I would have reacted in exactly the same manner."

For a moment, his face softened, and he made a move as if to come to me, although he stopped himself. "I flatter myself that that is true," he said softly.

"Well then - "

He resumed his pacing. "You know perfectly well what the problem is, Watson. On this occasion we were fortunate. The only witnesses to my shocking indiscretion were more interested in the sourcing of their next meal than in the antics of two complete strangers. Next time we shall be under the eyes of your friends the Gordons, or a Scotland Yard inspector."

I frowned. "It's not a crime to be in love."

"Oh, that's very credible." His lips twisted in a sneer, but I knew it was not directed at me. "Very credible indeed. So these two men are madly in love, and have shared rooms for almost a year, but it's all perfectly innocent?"

I had no answer to give to that, so I stayed silent, my stomach turning over inside me.

Holmes walked to the window and stood looking out, his back to me. "Thus, as I stated, I have come to apologise. Firstly, to apologise for my reckless behaviour, even though I know you already understand and forgive it. Secondly, to apologise in advance for something I fear you will neither understand nor forgive."

A cold feeling of dread was beginning to seep through my chest, as the inklings of what Holmes had in mind started to become clear to me.

He still had his back to me as he went on: "I love you, Watson, so much so that it renders me egoistical. I can no longer justify risking your liberty and good name thus, simply to gratify my own irrepressible desires. Such a scene as I enacted last night can never have the opportunity to occur again."

My chest was painfully constricted. I struggled to comprehend the exact significance of his words. Did he mean to suggest that I could no longer accompany him on his cases? Even worse, that one of us should move out of Baker Street? Or even – my heart clenched at the mere thought – could he possibly be suggesting that we should never see each other again?

"What are you trying to say exactly, Holmes?" I asked carefully.

He turned around at last, and the dead frozen expression on his face stabbed me to the heart. "I don't quite know myself yet," he said slowly. "I spoke without having thought the matter through, something I do not often do. But I could not hear your voice without coming into the room, and I could not face you, and yet hide what was in my mind."

I attempted to choose my words carefully, something which was not facile when all I longed for was to grasp him to me, and hold him without speaking. "Aren't you overreacting a little in the heat of the moment? What precisely does this change? We have always known the risk we run, after all, and I, for one, maintain that you are afraid of something that will never occur." Unable to touch him, I tried to pour all of my feelings into my words. "What's more, it is perfectly ridiculous to describe yourself as egoistical. There are two of us in this, Holmes, and I assure you, you are not risking my name and liberty, as you put it, without my heartfelt consent. Not that it is a risk that weighs heavily on my mind, when the happiness we bring each other so easily outweighs it."

He smiled bitterly. "Ah, but then you are an optimist, my dear Watson." His eyes were bright, and pain was written in every line of his rigid stance.

My mind raced, scrabbling desperately for the words to derail his mind from these inexorable tracks, but I knew that I could not, for that would have been the equivalent of convincing him he did not love me.

Finally he looked down at his watch. "I am going out now."

"Holmes - " I held out my hand to him again, but he shook his head.

He said in a cold, even voice which was entirely at odds with his anguished eyes: "I rather think we should begin as we mean to go on, don't you?" Saying these word, he walked out.

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