On Friday night, Holmes met me at Paddington station, and my breath caught as I spotted him across the platform.

To tell the truth, I had no idea where we were going, or why. In all my confusion, I had never thought to wonder. He greeted me with a hand on the arm, and eyes that sparkled with what, in another man, I would have called joy. It almost broke my heart.

'Where are we going, Holmes?'

'Oh, did I not tell you, Watson?' I shook my head. He shot a glance at me, his lip curled in a faint smile and he looked back at the departures board. 'We are heading to Dartmoor, to an old acquaintance's manor house. He is persuaded that he house is haunted. Of all things.' He scoffed. 'A lot of nonsense, of course, but–' He stopped and I regarded him questioningly. I would have sworn the colour in his cheeks increased.

'I thought a weekend in the country would be–' He paused. '–enjoyable.'

I felt the cold of shock trickle through me. He had pulled me out of London for a holiday, nothing more. Never mind solving a ridiculous case for an old acquaintance. This was Holmes, having pushed me into my wedding, doing his damndest to drag me back out of the marriage.

Any sane man, having had this revelation on the platform of their home station, would have turned and gone straight home. Naturally, I did no such thing. A few minutes later, the Plymouth train was announced, Holmes raised his cane in a gesture of satisfaction, and together we walked down the platform to board.

I pondered as we travelled, and had not finished pondering when we stepped off the train in Devon, upon one of our frequent visits to this particular stretch of moorland. From the time I had travelled here to assist as best I could in the Baskerville case, little knowing that Holmes was hot on my heels; to our picnic in the shadow of a granite excrescence, when he had first made love to me without restraint. Perhaps, I considered, that was why he was bringing me back here now, to a place with so many memories. Perhaps he simply loved the place and chose to bring me with him.

Certainly, he was in the highest of spirits as we strode off along the platform, a portmanteau each in one hand, canes in the other.

'Hah! Watson! Breathe that air!' he shouted as we stepped out into the lane. I rejoiced at that – sometimes Holmes appreciates the countryside, at other times he finds it intolerably dull and damp, and it sends him into a sulk for days. I preferred to bask in the former temper.

'Where does the gentleman live?' I asked. Holmes gave no answer, but perched himself upon a low fence, which ran between the lane and a stream, until it gave way to hedgerow. I tapped my cane on the wood next to him.

'Holmes! Where are we headed?' I asked, more forcefully. He tuned his head to look at me. His eyes were full of mischief, but they were kind, oh, very kind. I felt a growing urge to touch him, to embrace him and kiss him. To make it impossible, I hopped up onto the fence next to him and repeated my query more softly:

'Where are we staying while we are here?'

He sighed.

'The gentleman in question – a Mr Gilbert White – is sending the dog-cart for us. We are a little ahead of our time. No doubt it will be along shortly. It is not far; without our bags and the fatigue of travel, it could be walked from here. However, it is not my intention to arrive and instantly drop down with exhaustion – nor to have you do likewise.' The corner of his mouth turned up in a dangerous smile. I fixed him with a stern expression that barely hid the racing of my heart and the childish bounding of hope, disgust and apprehension that flared in equal measure in my breast.

'Holmes, I am here. But I cannot... Whatever your reasoning...' It occurred to me that it was not all that long ago that the idea of me having to put him off would have seemed ridiculous.

'Of course not, my dear friend,' he said, sounding so genuinely understanding that I relaxed and nodded.

The dog-cart arrived in a minute or two, and we clambered aboard with our cases. The driver introduced himself as the gardener, but past that, did not offer any information. Holmes had tucked himself into a corner, drawing his coat tightly about him, his scarf wound over his hat to keep it upon his head. I myself held the brim of my bowler with one hand, and tried very hard not to grasp his knee with the other.

The moon was up by the time we arrived, and Mr White met us at the gate, walking stick in hand, caped and booted for the chill wind and muddy ground.

'Mr Holmes! My deepest gratitude to you for coming all this way on my behalf.' Holmes nodded politely.

'A pleasure, Mr White, a true pleasure. My friend Doctor Watson.'

'I shook the man's hand and we followed him into the house, where our bags were taken by a servant and we were shown to a cosy drawing room with a roaring fire and a tray of supper items and tea.

The house itself was large, but homely. The furnishings were old and comfortable, the rooms warm and welcoming, but the corridors did indeed exude a certain chilly unfriendliness which struck me at the first instant.

'Mr Holmes, you have travelled a long way. I will not burden you or your companion with the particulars of my troubles today, as you stated you were in no particular hurry. Please, take some refreshment, then I will show you your rooms. The house is at your disposal – I have a quite extensive library you might enjoy.'

We ate a good supper, being ravenous after the journey, then followed our host up a sizeable staircase to the upper floor, where a trip along a corridor into the east wing of the building brought us to a pair of communicating rooms.

It was late, supper and the subsequent drinks having taken more time than we had supposed, and it was agreed that we should take to our rooms and see Mr White in the morning. I entered my room and shut the door, finding my case upon a dresser by the window. A moment later, there was a knock at the communicating door, and I opened it to Holmes, who stepped silently across the threshold and perched upon the corner of the bed.

'I should not have brought you here, I know,' were the first words he said. He did not look at me, and his posture was tense.

'Whyever not?' I asked, though in my heart I knew.

'Watson, do not feign ignorance. If I could possibly claim the slightest good reason for bringing you here, I would, but there is none whatsoever. You are here because I desired your company. I desired you. That is no reason at all, in the circumstances.' He turned his head, finally, to look at me. His look was devouring. I could feel him drawing me in. I don't think his intent was entirely to lead me astray, but neither of us had ever, in truth, been very good at resisting each other. I had to put him off firmly, at once.

'Holmes, I can't. I'd...' I suddenly realised that even admitting that I would like to... was a sin so great that it should not even have crossed my mind.

'I know you cannot. Nor did I truly imagine you would. Yet I brought you here selfishly, taking you away from your wife.'

'And I agreed to it. The blame must fall equally upon me.'

There was a pause wherein it was perfectly obvious that we both knew Holmes should go directly back to his own room, and not remain here as a temptation to us both.

I walked over to my case and began to unpack, removing my toilet bag, my nightshirt and finally a set of clothes which I hung to air. All the time, Holmes just sat on the bed, gazing into space. I finished my unpacking and sat on the chair in the corner. The room was silent as the grave. Through the stillness, I could hear the distant tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hall.

The silence was so tense, it made my heart beat faster. My mind filled with a sudden flood of things I wanted to do to him. I wanted to get up, step across to him, take his face in my hands and press our lips together. Just for a second, I could do it. Just the barest touch of lips to demonstrate that I was removed from him by moral obligation, but not by choice. Only it was by choice – in reality, no-one had held a gun to my head while I married her.

More than anything, I wanted to put my arms around him and feel him holding me in return. I would hold him tight and not let go, just as I had once in the past.

He stood up and put his hands in his pockets, pacing the room until he passed so close to me that I could feel the heat radiating from him. He turned at the wall and returned, passing me again. I saw his hand twitch, recognised that he was going to reach out and touch me on the shoulder. I steeled myself not to react, but he paused, then walked swiftly away to the door.

'Goodnight, my dear Watson,' he said, quite calmly, but once he was through, he slammed the door with unwonted ferocity.

I changed and got into bed, trying to ignore how miserable I was feeling. I wondered what would happen if I were to open that door and step up to him and kiss him on the forehead, then leave again. I thought it might make me feel better. Then again, it might not. The idea was persuasive though, preventing me from closing my eyes, let alone sleeping.

An hour later I was still awake. If he was asleep – and he had no current case involving enough to keep him up – I could go in and do that without him even knowing it. That would be solely affectionate, not unfaithful. I swung my legs out of bed and wormed my toes into my slippers. I crept to the door and listened. I could hear no sound of movement. I resolved just to open the door a little way and look in. I crouched down to look through the keyhole. The room beyond was dark. I put one hand on the doorknob, pressed the other against the door to steady it, gently twisted the knob and pulled it open.

I was confronted by the silhouette of Holmes, barely a foot from me, his hand out flat towards me, as if it had previously been resting against his side of the door.

He looked at me for a second and raised his eyebrow, then held out his arms, beckoning with his open hands. It was only one step. I do not think I can be blamed, given the lateness of the hour, for taking that step. He closed his arms around me, and I felt the ball of fire in my chest rise to my throat.

This was a terrible, terrible idea. I had no doubt that if he were to reach a hand down to my crotch, or pull my head towards him and kiss me, I would offer no resistance. But I had to stop this before that could happen. I gritted my teeth and pushed away from him. My hands gripped his upper arms, and before I let go, I leant in and kissed his cheek. I shut the door in his face, intending to return to the bed, but instead, I stood there, my hand resting upon the wood, unmoving for a long time in the darkness, my breathing in counterpoint to the faint tick-tock from the hallway as the grandfather clock measured the night away for my benefit.

The next day was quiet for the most part, leaving me a great deal of time to alternately berate myself for my weakness, and guiltily exalt in my own daring. There came, however, a moment in the late afternoon when the sounds of approaching feet followed hard upon the occasion of our host ringing the bell to report ghostly activity. We had not stayed to listen to his tale, but had dashed out, taking a circuitous route to cut off any perpetrators in their escape. As we ran along the corridor, we realised that we were about to be seen.

'Quick Watson! In here!' Holmes had thrown open the door next to him and without further warning, grasped me by the arm and all but threw me into what turned out to be a linen-cupboard. The lower portion of the cupboard was un-shelved, having a rail depending from a shelf roughly at my eye height, and nothing below save for a broom and a small pile of newspapers. Holmes having followed me in and tugged the door shut against our shoulders, we found ourselves in an extremely cramped position. Even I could not stand straight, Holmes was bent almost double. This made us both lean forward, towards each other, and it was more expedient to lean our foreheads against one another than to attempt to balance ourselves apart.

His nose brushed against mine, making my breath hitch. His hand was upon my shoulder, stopping it from accidentally pushing open the door. I closed my eyes and did my best to think of the case, of the outside world, not of this perfect cubby-hole, thick with the presence of my friend.

'Ghosts, ah, naturally,' Holmes muttered under his breath. 'A stableboy and a housemaid; bored and eager to hide the evidence of their clumsy assignations under the guise of a poltergeist.' He seemed perfectly contented by this simple explanation. I knew from experience that upon most occasions, such an unchallenging case, such an insult to his intellect, would drive him to loud displays of exaggerated boredom and real frustration. However, now, he seemed more gleeful at the case's simplicity.

The footsteps passed the door: muffled laughter, two voices. Holmes opened the door by the barest of cracks. I could see the backs of two people, two lamps, two sheets of some gossamer-thin material, dragging behind the a small cart, running on silent wheels. It was clear: the means of disguise, the means to glide, the means to glow, the temperament to cause mischief. Hardly a case for Holmes.

We watched them go, giggling down the hallway, and Holmes pushed the door open unbending himself and stretching to his full height. He beckoned me out. I could still feel his forehead burning against my own.

We should have left that evening. The case was solved, we had no reason to stay, but Mr White was keen for us to remain there for at least another night, and Holmes barely put up any protest. I could hardly refuse myself, the man was Holmes' acquaintance, not mine.

So we stayed. We sat in his spacious study, passing the port and sampling his excellent cigars as the gramophone scratched out a symphony. Holmes allowed himself the luxury of relaxing, and his face was beatific in repose. He sat next to me on the day-bed opposite the fire, while our host occupied his desk chair.

At around nine o'clock, Mr White left to answer the call of nature and Holmes drew his legs up onto the daybed, sitting legs akimbo. His thigh pressed against my arm, he was doing it on purpose, I knew he was, and I should have reprimanded him, but a few moments later, we could hear our host returning along the hall, and in the few seconds before he reached the door, I reached around his leg and took his hand for a moment. He squeezed it and then dropped his feet back to the floor. I tried to pretend that I wasn't raising my hand to my lips as I withdrew it, that the shiver spreading from my head to the bottom of my stomach was nothing to do with him.

That night I was careful to stay in my bed and not allow myself even to wink at temptation. It was a relief to travel back to London the next day, and return to my wife, out of the reach of that monstrous desire.