The day after our return from a very peaceful honeymoon, I walked through my front door after a trip to the tobacconist and the barber, and was met for the first time in this manner by my wife, a picture in light blue. I leant in to kiss her, and she clung to me for a second before pushing me back. I smiled, enjoying the sensation of the feminine form in my arms once more. She smoothed my moustache and spoke,

'Mr Holmes has been here.'

'He has?'

'He left his wedding present for us.'

'I thought he had already given...'

'He said you'd understand.'

I stepped into the front parlour as she pointed through the door. There, in the centre of the room, tied about the pole with a white satin bow, was a hatstand. I staggered back, all the levity gone. How did he dare? How could he remind me of all that... of everything we had done... While my bride, delightful in her new dress, stood there deserving of all my love and affection. How dare he try to divert my attention back to him in such a crude manner...?

'It will look well in the hall,' she said. 'There's a card attached, but it's only marked for you, so I didn't read it.'

'Reluctantly, I stepped up to the offending stand and pulled the card from the back of the bow. I slipped it from its envelope and read, carefully angling it away from my wife. I did not know whether Holmes would have the common sense to be guarded in whatever it was he wished to communicate.

My Dear Watson,

I imagine you are fuming with anger at my presumption in presenting you with this object. Believe me, my motives are innocent.

I wish you every happiness, but I know you enjoy the opportunity to nag at me from time to time, so I shall continue to turn up unannounced until you order me to desist. When I am not around, I thought this might be a reminder of the flatmate who has spent so many years infuriating you. Since you are a gentleman and will therefore forbear to shout at your wife, perhaps you may use it as a sounding post when you are next frustrated with the world and its vices.

Please accept it with good humour and the friendship with which it was intended.

Yours ever,

SH.

I stood reading the note over and over. Between the lines was a different letter, invisible to all but myself. After all my years of experience with Holmes, I could read it almost as clearly as the written words:

My Dear Watson,

I know this will have angered you, because I know you better than you know yourself. My motives are entirely selfish, but I know that you have already realised that, and I beg your forgiveness that I cannot help myself.

Never mind what I said; I cannot bear you to go off and lead your own life without me, and I am certain that you do not wish that either, so, having pushed you into marriage with this woman, I will now do everything in my power to disrupt your wedded bliss by continually turning up to drag you away from hearth and home. I know that you will come, because you love me. Here are a couple of explanations you can give your wife as to my choice of gift..

Please understand that I know you still get hot under the collar when you think of me in a certain way. This hatstand is my way of showing that everything I have said since I told you to pursue this woman has been pure bluster and bravado. It is intended to remind you of this every time you hang your coat, and remember me hanging from it while you made love to me. When you tire of your wife, as you are certain to do, it will remind you that I am waiting.

Please accept it, because I have no other way of telling you this. I could never say it face to face, my courage does not extend so far.

Yours forever...

'Holmes...' I whispered, wishing that I could have him in front of me at that moment. However, had he appeared before me, the choice between kissing him and knocking him out would have been an impossible one. His intended letter, I knew I had summoned from my own head, which made it all the worse. The assertion that I would tire of my wife was untrue. I had been widowed by my first wife, and the other women I had never quite wedded... well, I was younger then. Now I was wiser, and surely had gone into this knowing that it was an eternal bond. No... No. In my heart of hearts, I realised that I had stood before that official and lied through my teeth. My mind had already started to conjure me images of the freedom I would attain should she die, or should she choose to leave me...

I collapsed into the chair next to me. Even to think that way was intolerable. I was a gentleman, I had always conducted myself as a gentleman. It was remarked upon by many of my friends and acquaintances. And gentlemen do not get married only to start thinking of ways to extricate themselves before the ink is dry in the register.

My wife was by my side at once. She knew, at that moment, that something was amiss.

'John? John, what is it? What does it mean?'

'It has no meaning,' I said, rubbing my eyes and trying to find within me a brave face to show her.

'May I read the note? Or is it private?'

'No, you may read it,' I said, for there was nothing in the note that would give me away. She read for a moment, then frowned at me.

'Why should you be angry? What on Earth...?'

'Can you allow me that as a secret?' I asked her, rising and taking her in my arms. She watched me shrewdly for a moment, then nodded, and leaned in to peck me on the lips. I pushed towards her deepening the kiss – I felt I owed her that, owed her some recompense for my complete mental unfaithfulness. Why had I not listened to Lestrade? Why had I not stood up to Holmes and admitted to him and to myself that marriage had always been my aim, but that now things were different, and going into a relationship with a woman, when my whole body and soul cried out for Holmes, was sheer folly, and unkind to the lady if nothing else.

However, it was now far, far too late for such self-remonstrations, for such awareness. Here I was, tied in wedlock (the word had never seemed so appropriate,) and I was going to ensure that it was all I wanted. I would not consider the other possibilities any more.

I sustained this frame of mind, admirable as it was, for an entire fortnight.

At the end of the two weeks, I had reserved a morning to slip out and arrange some uncomplicated matters at the bank and buy myself a new hat, my old grey bowler having met its end under the wheels of a hansom following its removal by a gust of wind. I opened the door, my second best hat halfway to my head, and was arrested mid-step by Holmes, his cane raised to knock at the door. My mouth went inexplicably dry and a wave of nausea rushed through me. The urge to prevent myself falling into the doorframe by falling into his arms was overwhelming. I took a step back.

'Holmes!' I cried. He stared at me, blinked slowly, looking me up and down, no doubt seeing exactly what I was trying so hard to hide. Then he was back to business, his eyes lively and encouraging.

'Watson!' he said with relish. 'Will you come with me today? I would value your assistance.'

Yes, of course I'll come.

'But Holmes, I was just running an errand. Can it wait for half an hour?'

'Not if we are to be in time. Will you come?'

Yes, I will. This instant.

'I must tell Caroline. When are we likely to return?'

'We must go to Slough. Perhaps late this evening. Nine or ten o'clock.'

Only ten? Make it eleven. Make it tomorrow.

'Very well. One moment.'

I turned and went back to the morning room where Caroline sat in the window, releasing dried flowers from her little press, pulling the dead blooms from the papers that had crushed them, and dropping them with care into a tissue-lined box, ready for some decorative use or other.

'Holmes is here,' I said, watching her fingers working loose a gossamer-thin daisy. 'He asks me to accompany him on a case he has. Do you object to me going with him? He expects us to be back around ten this evening.'

'Not at all,' she said, looking up and smiling at me. She moved the box aside and stood up, smoothing down the front of her skirts. She walked past me, heading for the front door, and had her hand extended to Holmes as she reached the threshold.

'Mr Holmes, what a pleasure to see you.' Holmes tugged on his glove to remove it, took her hand and kissed it. I felt my eyebrow raise – Holmes will defer only to women for whom he has some respect, and even then, it is not a given.

'Watson has not yet bored you so much with his fictitious accounts of my exploits then that you cannot bear to expose yourself to the truth.'

'John never refers to you but in the most glowing terms,' my wife replied. This was not strictly true – I had explained to her a little of his inconsistency of mood, more to warn her for the future than to grumble for the sake of it.

'I do not doubt it,' he said, raising knowing eyes to me and letting the smallest twitch of his lips give me a different meaning than the one he was expressing to her. I felt myself going red. Caroline stepped back to let me pass.

'I hope John will be of great assistance to you today. Come home safely, my love,' she added to me, reaching up to kiss me on the cheek.

I let my hands linger on her waist for a moment or two, looked into her eyes, saw how lovely she looked, smiling and contented. I nodded to her and let her go. I turned and went down the steps with Holmes, hearing the door close behind us.

We went to Slough and met a man whose character Holmes asked me to evaluate to compare it with his own ideas. I saw the medical issue behind his strange movements and suspicious glances, which Holmes had been unable to fathom. We finished with him at five, and Holmes suggested that we repair to an inn for a drink and some supper. He did not seem at all surprised that we had finished the main business of our day at such an early hour. Had we caught the train now, I could have been sitting at home with my wife before seven or half past.

'You would rather go straight back?' he asked, eyeing me sideways as we walked out towards the station and the nearby inn.

'No,' I said, not daring to say more. I thought of my wife. I thought of her sitting...by the...window? Or... I could not concentrate on the vision and it flew from me.

We stopped at the inn and I forced myself to take only a small ale before and one with my meal, not allow myself to indulge and risk a loosening of my hold on propriety. I refused a glass of anything to follow, and smoked a cigarette instead, watching as Holmes did the same, leaning up against the corner of the panelling abutting his bench seat.

The cigarettes burned down and were stubbed out, and we sat in silence for a while, the easy conversation we had enjoyed during our meal had dried up and left us unable to return to it. After a while, he sat up straight.

'Watson, there is a last train at eight-thirty. We have an hour to kill. Shall we go for a walk? The weather is mild enough. I should rather enjoy a stroll in the countryside before we return to town.'

I had no desire to sit in silence with him for an hour, it was too dangerous to let my mind wander when I was in the same room as him. So I agreed, and we gathered our coats, hats and canes and strode out into the dusk, taking the road that led away from the railway line and out between fields and farmsteads.

Our elbows bumped as we walked, and I unthinkingly jutted out my elbow. Holmes slipped his arm through mine and I felt something hot and painful building in my chest as we strolled together.

Every step we took rubbed his coat against my side, releasing his scent to waft around us, filling my nostrils and drugging my brain, until I could think of nothing but him, until the ball of anguish in my chest was a seething mass that crawled into the recesses of my lungs, up my throat, and into the empty cavity of my skull.

I staggered against him, my vision blackening. He stood me against a gate, of necessity, as I was ready to fall over. I could barely breathe. Those breaths I could take were gasping and harsh, groans escaping me without my volition. I wanted to tell him, but I hiccuped on the words, swallowed them, could barely get them out.

'I...' I took a deep breath, 'Holmes, why...' A sob escaped me, I hoped it did not sound like a sob, but knew it did. 'Why did you...tell me...to...do this...? To marry...' My whole body was shaking, He held my shoulders to steady me, but said and did nothing else. 'You told me...' I swallowed hard, and felt as if I had just run a hundred miles. '...to do it.' I meant it as an accusation, but it came out as an excuse.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and shook his head. 'This is what you wanted, my dear friend. You are the very best of men. You would not have asked the lady if you had not wanted to.'

I could see he almost believed it, but it was not the truth. I raised my arms to grip his biceps; we were locked together now, like a pair of wrestlers. The lump rose in my throat, and my head shook from side to side, trying to keep control. I stared into his eyes and roared brokenly at him, every word cut with tears of frustration.

'I...would...never have...jumped...' I gripped him tighter, 'If...you had not...pushed me...'

'That is not true, my dear man. Control yourself. Calm down, you will cause yourself some injury. Come, come, Watson. Think what you are saying man! You have married a charming woman, whose company pleases you. You are living the life you should be. It is simply that you are in my company and memory is playing a terrible game with you.'

He held me still, and I considered his words as far as I could. He was right. This was what I had wanted. What I was feeling now was pure selfishness, it was wanting everything for myself: the stability of marriage, the gentle love of a woman; and yet, at the same time, wanting the hedonistic physicality, the loss of self-control, which I enjoyed with Holmes. Slowly, my breathing returned to normal, and although I could still feel the ache in my throat and chest, it was no longer threatening to burst out of me. I nodded and took my own weight at last.

'It is twenty past eight. We will not make the station in time.'

Only ten? Make it eleven. Make it tomorrow.

The inn was full. It was too late to walk back into the town and find other lodgings. The innkeeper took pity on us, offering a private sitting room in which we could at least sit out the night in soft chairs before the first train at six. Before turning in, I arranged for a telegram to be sent to Caroline, explaining, with a little less than the full truth, my delay.

When I entered the sitting room, Holmes had sat himself down at one end of a comfortable-looking sofa, padded with cushions and more inviting than the hard, leather chair by the ill-fitting window, or the wooden carvers by the fire. His arm stretched along the back, open and encouraging, and although I knew I should sit at the far end, lean against the corner and stay away from Holmes, his warmth, and the danger he represented, I did not. Instead, I took my seat so close to him that the rising and falling of his chest as he breathed moved the fabric of my jacket.

'It's an ill wind, Watson,' he said softly, and dropped his arm onto my shoulders. I looked around at him, intending to ask him to stop, though hoping he would not. He held my gaze, a pleading quality in his eyes quelling my protests, as a wave of tiredness swept over me. I shook my head, laid it back against his arm, and fell asleep.