I, of course, never answered that question. The months passed with the promise of new distractions in the form of new cases, and Watson was beside me as always. But there was a distance now that was nearly undetectable. Nearly. It manifested as only curious glance, a stopped sentence, a slight imbalance in action. As if the doctor was suspicious of my every drawn breath and desired to know where I was at all hours. I thought also that he seemed to have constantly something on his mind, for he was as distracted as ever I'd seen him, but never would he bring it up. It stayed buried away in the dark, forgotten, as I fear Oscar was.

The letter had come, addressed to me in a hand unfamiliar, but the postmark of Paris was an instant clue. I knew none there, save one, who might choose to write me. If my professional services were desired by the Parisian police, certainly a wire would be far more appropriate.

I held the letter for several minutes, standing alone in the centre of the sitting room, feeling the thickness of the envelope; its symmetry pressed against my chest. I even told myself I could smell his flowery scent against the paper.

It was utter, mindless rot, of course. A flight of fancy quite unlike me.

I knew that it was not from Oscar. He would not ask for me himself. We had not seen each other to speak of for nearly six years. I had seen him once since the arrest, at the Old Bailey, and it had been in the disguise of a clerk.

The prosecutor, a stone-faced little man named Gill, was reading a poem of Lord Alfred Douglas. "Pray tell me, Mr. Wilde, what is the 'love that dare not speak its name'?"

Oscar hesitated, breathing noisily for several seconds. His eyes roamed around the room at all the vile serpents that looked down at him and hissed, ready to pounce. But then he spoke:

'"The love that dare not speak its name" in this century is such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare. It is that deep, spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect. It dictates and pervades great works of art like those of Shakespeare and Michelangelo, and those two letters of mine, such as they are. It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as the "Love that dare not speak its name," and on account of it I am placed where I am now. It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an elder and a younger man, when the elder man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him. That it should be so the world does not understand. The world mocks it and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it."'

He was brilliant, perfection as he spoke those words. The crowd was to its feet, just as they had been at the Haymarket when Watson and I had witnessed his genius first hand. But this time it was ever so different.

"Sinner!"

"Shame, shame!"

"Bugger!"

Some clapped, but it all ceased rapidly as the judge endeavoured to regain control of his courtroom. "Bravo..." I called, or rather the clerk did, disguised amongst the rabble of the gawkers. He could not hear the support though, for the taunts far silenced us. I was shoved numerous times as the defendant was led out. Some pushed to get closer to him, so that they could yell their scoffs in his face. He was spit on, nearly jostled off his feet. And I could only stand helpless and watch his humiliation.

A petit young fellow appeared beside me. He was clean-shaven and possessed a head of dark curls. The corners of his dark impassioned eyes glistened slightly as Oscar came into sight. But on his face, he wore only a smile. Carefully and jovially, as if greeting a friend on any street corner, he lifted his hat as our man passed. He said not a word.

Oscar turned to us as he did. His ignominy lifted momentarily and his eyes regained their superiority and dignity. "My dears, good-bye," said he, nearly in a whisper. No one could have heard him save this man and myself. We watched him until he was gone.

The fellow next to me returned his hat to his head and pushed his way through the crowd. Later, I would learn who this man was. Robert Ross.

There were many men in Oscar's life, and the vast majority I am sorry to say were barely old enough for such a title. He preferred the young and beautiful, whatever the class so that he might fulfil his desire of the ancient Greek master/pupil and enjoy the gifts of beauty of the young, and share the wisdom of the elder. I think I can safely conjecture that for whatever reason, I was the only man befitting his age and station that he had ever had. And whatever I may like to imagine in the more foolish, darker regions of my mind, I knew that there were only two that were really close to his heart. I found it instantly ironic just how opposite these two were. Fire and ice. Black and white. Perhaps even more sinister.

I knew of Lord Alfred Douglas through my own biographies of notable persons, but at the time of my meeting Oscar, he was only an undergraduate of Oxford, and a snobbish and rich play-boy which is hardly startling news for a boy of that class. His father, however, was the Marquess of Queensbury and any reputation that he had acquired I was certain was well-earned. As I discovered one day in the coldest November I had recalled, in the year of '94.

I received a telegram calling me to the Thackeray club the following day on an urgent matter of the utmost discretion. The paper and ink quality were of such a fine nature that at first I made the assumption that some lackey must have written the note, for surely none that had the backround of Marquess could be so unforgiving to both grammar and spelling. It was a completely fallacious error that I cursed myself for making as soon as I realised it. One must never assume. And this man, whatever else he may be, was as ignorant a man as I ever would meet.

I sent word of my acceptance, out of curiosity if nothing else, and the next day arrived at three in the afternoon at the steps of the club amidst a freezing downpour of the season. Giving my name at the door, I was instantly guided through room after room of middle-aged men drinking hock and seltzer, then past a rather large library and a narrow stairwell into a small, windowless room of little light.

The Marquess stood beside the only furniture that occupied the room-an old deal table and single chair. He was not a tall man, but broad and possessing a heavy neck and shoulders. In his hand was clenched a riding crop, and I could tell instantly from the marks on his hand that he was in the habit of carrying this weapon frequently. He had the twitch of arm and impatience of eye that suggested he had used it on more than one occasion. His face was contorted into a superior sneer, and he took no pains in sizing me up with two flat, colourless eyes. I knew him then to be the worst of his class.

In the course of my career, I can recall several villains that I have had the disservice of dealing with, and while I can recall instant judgments of dislike on several of these characters, not since the late Professor Moriarty can I recall ever feeling so much abhorrence for an individual so quickly. I would usually try and reserve judgment until after more data had been gathered and save said personal opinions as irrelevant. How I felt toward a client was not pertinent in solving a case. But I admit, with the Marquess of Queensbury, I felt an instant disgust boil within the pit of my stomach. He was a vile creature.

The second his eyes fell on my person, he dismissed the page with an indifferent wave. "You are Holmes." He said. It was rather hard to discern whether this was a statement of fact or a question. Yet I doubted he asked many questions.

"And you are the Marques of Queensbury. I see you have little need for formalities, so you will pardon me if I get straight to the point of why you have sent for me."

"You are a detective, are you not?" He remained standing and did not offer me to sit or drink with him. My distaste continued to grow.

"I am a private consulting detective, sir. I am not affiliated with the police in any way, save as an authority."

"Hm! Are you indeed? I suppose there is some little difference, but you needn't bother to explain. The reason I have summoned you (yes, summoned, as I were a peasant of the courts) here is that I require your services. I have heard you are to be relied upon for your discretion, and unlike most of Scotland Yard, you may actually have something of a brain."

As I stood there being insulted by a fool, watching the riding crop repeatedly slap down against his thigh threateningly, it occurred to me how much I'd come to rely on Watson. My temper is far from as even as his and I relied upon his steady nerve to deal with such obvious imbeciles as this. Oh, that I could have him beside me at that moment! But of course, wishing it did not make it so. It half occurred to me to walk out without another word being spoken, but I did not have the chance. As I was carefully depositing my disgust into the eyes of my opponent, preparing to vocalise my revulsion, there was an unexpected bang and the door was thrown open. A young fellow, not more than five and twenty and with the visage capable of matching that of any Heaven could offer came charging in. I knew immediately who this must be. I had pretended, as had many others, that Oscar had not at last chosen one over the rest of us.

"Father!" He shrieked unbecomingly. "I thought as much! What do you think you are doing to me!"

The crop slammed down hard enough against the table to nearly cause me to shudder. "Do not take that tone with me, boy! How dare you intrude upon me in this manner?"

I thought to tactfully make my escape as this occurred, but I could not move for my curiosity. The famed Lord Alfred Douglas was in front of me at last. The only one to steal and keep Oscar's heart.

"How dare, I, father? I? After what you are trying to do to me?"

"You, sir, are an abomination!" Screamed the Marquess as he pointed a squat finger at his child. "And certainly no son of mine! I will do whatever I must-and can- to bring about Wilde's downfall. And if I must do the same to you as well, so be it."

"You are absurd, Father!"

"I will not have you ending up as Francis1 did! I will not have another disgusting bugger in this family!"

I am sure that, at that moment, I was very sorry indeed that I had come alone. I had never, nor have been since, so uncomfortable in my solitude. To stand there, knowing what I did, knowing the secrets not just of Bosie and Oscar, but of myself…it was as near to the end that I ever wanted.

The word had some effect on the boy. Although it was certainly not the first time he had heard the title, I am sure, he no doubt was surprised his father would say such a thing in front of another. His eyes, a clear and dangerous blue, met mine for a second before returning to his parents'. "You can call me all the names you wish, Father," said he. "But nothing will change the fact that I love Oscar. And he loves me. He will do anything for me. And if you think you are going to stop that, you are wrong."

"Don't you dare sass me, you insolent brat!" Queensbury's face was quite red at that moment. His jowl hung into his necktie as his face was set into a deeply wrinkled frown. "You have no means of support without me! And as for Wilde, I will take ever penny of his before this is over! Do you hear me, Bosie?"

But Lord Alfred had ceased to listen to him. Rather, he had turned to me. He was a beautiful thing in his skin, I will not deny that. The blue eyes, the blond curls and fair skin. But I did not take much of an eye to see the brash ugliness that worried me. How could Oscar not see it? He was so completely dangerous. "And you. Who are you?"

"I…do not see who I am as important to you." I said to him. I could not give my name. Oscar would never betray me, but this boy was the last person I wished to know me.

"Well, whoever you are…if you aid this man, this…creature against me, I will see to it that you pay. Do not ally yourself with him, I warn you."

"Get out!" Queensbury roared at the top of his voice. "Get out now, Bosie, before I have you thrown out on your perverted buggering end!"

"I appreciate the advice, Lord Alfred," said I, nearly reaching to take his hand. "I assure you I will keep it in mind."

As the riding crop came just inches from his face, Bosie ducked out then without another word to either of us. His presence, however, had had a profound affect on both Queensbury and myself.

"Forgive me for that," said the man after a moment to regain his composure. "But you see now why I am in need of a detective? Bosie is…a sick pervert. A bugger. Yet despite it all, he is my son. And I know that it is not his fault. It is that Oscar Wilde's."

I could not look at him then for fear of laughing. "Is it really?" I forced my voice to sound completely innocent.

"Yes…surely you must know? He is the biggest bugger of them all. There is probably none he hasn't taken under his wing of the lower classes. He muses over them, gives them presents and charms them with his art…and then he buggers them…"

"Please, sir," said I, holding up a hand, pretending to be shocked, although in truth I was far more amused at his description than anything. "Must we keep using that word?"

Queensbury nodded and for the first time, his face betrayed some little respect for me. "I can see that you are a man such as I. A traditionalist who believes in the same conservative ways of our forefathers." (Oh, the joy of the irony was such that even Oscar could not handle it!). "And I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that all I want out of this is my son back. I want him away from those that would corrupt him. In short, what I want of you is to follow him. And Wilde. I need proof to bring a case against him, and as of now I have none. I can get the…creatures he uses when he not using my son, but their word means nothing. They are rabble. I need the word of a gentleman. A man whose name and honour mean something, as I am sure yours does."

"You wish that I would get evidence of your son and Wilde's relationship…and then testify against them?"

"It is the only way to stop them!" He cried passionately.

In all my years working against and occasionally for the foulest forms of life, I have come up against many that I consider to be the worst of human kind. Yet even they seemed to have some sort of redemption. Moriarty, for example, was the most dangerous of criminal minds. But one could certainly not disregard his genius. And Baron Gruner, commonly known as the Austrian murderer, was a foul and loathsome creature, but one who possessed such charm that the fair sex were able to overlook all his many, many faults. The true assessment of a criminal must be judged in both the qualities that lure them to evil as well as the ones the make that evil attractive to others. And with Queensbury, for the first time, I could find nothing. No redeeming quality, no saving grace save the good fortune of having been born well. He was completely lost to all. I knew that his remaining years would be spent realising that.2

I shook my head sadly; sad for his situation. "I am afraid, sir, that I cannot help you." And I turned on my heel to leave.

He was surprised. I could sense it. "What do you mean? Do you not realise how important this is…how much money I could pay you?"

I turned back around. "Money means very little to me. I work for two things: the intellectual stimulation-of which this offers me very little, and the betterment of society. And you most assuredly offer none of that."

He turned the foul colour of deep red again, and I myself felt that it was time to depart. I no longer desired to share the same space as this creature. I returned my hat to my head and tipped it ever so slightly with a bit of a smile I was unable to resist. "Good-day, your lord-ship."

The day did not seem quite as bone-chilling cold as it had just an hour previous. The wind had died somewhat, and above the tops of the roofs I could see a golden tint to the cloud indicating that the sun was trying to warm the miserable winter's day. Although it was quite a walk, I decided to save myself a shilling's fare and take it upon my own steam back to Baker Street. I felt warm inside, although I should not have. I should have felt contaminated.

If Lord Alfred Douglas was the only one to ever completely capture Oscar's heart, it was Robert Ross who never completely gave up on the man. It is clear to me now that Douglas caused Oscar's downfall as much as his father, but were it not for Ross, Oscar would have never made it as long as he did.

As with Douglas, I met Ross in person only once to speak of, and that occurred shortly after Oscar's conviction. I was in dire need of news. Not the kind that the newspapers were printing for that said nothing save how famous he was, how important the trial was, how unspeakable the entire affair had been, and so on. I ask no one. People talked off course, but it was suspicious to even have a curiosity of the subject, and the rumours that circulated were not what I desired either. As always, I desired the truth. And I knew of one that was sure to know all.

We met several months after Oscar's sentencing at a pub of his choosing called 'The Blue Donkey'. He led me to a private table in the back of the room, a table almost hidden under the large head of a male boar. Rather than arousing suspicion by holding a whispered conversation, he had the good sense to pick a bustling, crowded room filled with men half-drunk, calling loudly, laughing and singing. We would be no more noticed than the billiards table or the photograph of Her Majesty on the wall.

Wordlessly, he motioned me to sit while he procured two pints of ale. He chatted pleasantly with the publican for a moment, a heavily mutton-chopped man with the cough and voice of one who spent years in the coal mines of America, only to inherit some money and decide to come to Europe in his later years, probably with the hope of retaining what was left of his health. Although I could not hear what was being said, I was clear enough that Ross was both charming and polite, but more than eager to escape. His nerves betrayed him as he repeatedly strummed the counter with three fingers and switched his balance from foot to foot.

At last he was able to nod with a tense grin and return to where I waited. "My apologies," said he as he set our drinks down. "The barkeep, Fischer, has a talent for talk."

"But not apparently for brevity."

Ross smiled, only slightly uncertainly. "Indeed. But we cannot all have your gifts, Mr. Holmes."

"Ah! You know me, then?"

"Only by reputation."

"Only by reputation?"

He paused to drink, considering his response. I knew he would arrive at the correct conclusion. It was of no use to try and conceal anything from me. "Oscar has spoken of you." I nodded tersely, but he rushed to continue. "Whatever you may think, sir, I want you to know that I am as discreet as you. I would never"-

"I realise that, Mr. Ross. I could tell from the moment I first saw you."

"Today?" He asked confused.

"No, at Old Bailey. You were standing next to me as they led Oscar out."

He strained in his memory to try and recall it, and obviously was able to, for he smiled brightly. "Yes, I remember…"

"Mr. Ross," I began, not exactly sure what I wanted from him, but none-the-less wanting him to realise that I would do anything I could. Anything that would not endanger my name. In my reckless past, I had already risked enough. "You will think me a coward, and I will not blame you if you do, but I want to help. Truly, I do. However, to go there and see him…anyone, any male that is who goes to see him, even under the most innocent of circumstances will be believed to be involved illicitly with Oscar."

"Yes, I know." He looked unconcerned. "And I would advice you not to risk it. You are known. Not just here in London, but all over. I, however, outside of my own family in Canada and a select few at Oxford, will never be considered worthy of gossip."

He lit a cigarette, and offered one to me, which I took, although it was some disgustingly poor blend that could not allow the lungs to celebrate over. He breathed it in deeply, studying me as he did. "You love him as well, do you not?"

"What?"

He chuckled at my surprise. "Come now, Mr. Holmes. I've known Oscar only a decade or so, but it is an infinity when you compare it to how long others have. Take Bosie for example…"

"I warned Oscar how dangerous that wretch was."

"You and everyone he knew, Mr. Holmes. He is so infatuated by him…oh, how I tried to tell him how reckless he was being!" Ross sighed emotionally and gave a shrug. "He doesn't listen. Not to me, not to anyone. Only to Bosie."

"You obviously have much to deal with, Mr. Ross. I commend you."

"Do you mean with Oscar or with Bosie?"

"The both of them."

"Bosie can be…quite cruel." He dropped his gaze as he reached for a second cigarette. "It is hard to blame him. You have seen his father, of course, so you must know. Anyone with that for a parent could not help but turn out the way he did…yet, it is difficult. I do not mean to complain, so you will have to excuse me. But it is clear to everyone-everyone except Oscar-that Bosie clearly does not have his best interests at heart. It is just as much his fault as Queensbury that he is in gaol now."

"Now, now, Mr. Ross. Be fair. It was a fool of a thing that he did. The most illogical act I can ever recall from such an otherwise brilliant man! Why, oh why would he bring that libel case against Queensbury?"

I could tell immediately from Ross's reaction that it was a futile question that had passed through his mind thousands of times. He could only shrug with a funny little smile, as if it were all too bizarre for comprehension. "If you can force that out of him, Mr. Holmes, you are more resilient than I. And really, what is the point of it all? I rather prefer to think on what will happen after he is released."

He was a far more optimistic creature than I. The chances of Oscar even surviving the labour were none that a betting man would consider, and even if he did survive, in what state of health would it be? Leaden as it made my heart, I knew that the Oscar Wilde of the past was gone from our lives forever. But I could not say that to Ross. He knew it already, deep down. "He can certainly not return to London. Or anywhere in Britain, I would think. Will you set up somewhere for him?"

"I would like him to go to Italy, if possible. If not, than Paris, I imagine."

"I will send you a cheque, when appropriate."

His face hardened, and I knew then for certain that I had been correct in my assessment of his character. "I am not asking for handouts, Mr. Holmes."

"You will need them, nonetheless. I am not talking about thousands of pounds, my dear boy. Despite what you may hear, I am far from wealthy."

He looked at me then in a way that I should have expected would make me uncomfortable were it a lesser man, but somehow did not. It was respect, but there was more to it than that. I imagined that it was much the same look that forced Oscar out of the darkness of his soul six years previous. Ross, however, had the good grace to control it. "You are a decent man, Mr. Holmes. I can see why Oscar is so fascinated with you."

It was certainly not my decency that he found fascinating

Ross and I spoke for well over an hour, but I can recall nothing else specific that we spoke of. He was charming, but not overtly, and very polite. I left with the utmost respect and reverence for him. As we stood outside The Blue Donkey offering our hands to each other, I said, "Will you promise me something?"

"Of course, sir."

"If you…or Oscar were ever to have need of me. For any reason. Will you write and ask for me?"

He hesitated. "You would risk that?"

"I…owe as much. No, that is not the reason. I want to do as much."

Releasing my hand, he nodded adamantly. "I believe you do. Good-day, Mr. Holmes." He tipped his hat much as he had done for Oscar, the same bright smile of innocence upon his face, although I knew him to be anything but. Yet there was something of a simple and pure aura that surrounded him. He turned and slowly disappeared into the black snow.

"Good-day, Mr. Ross." I said after him, although I was quite certain he was out of earshot. He walked carefully and straight, swinging his arms slightly and looking about him, as if he were carefree student on holiday without a care in the world.

We were not to see each other again.

It was in a brisk fall, late in November of '97 when the letter came to me. It had been over two years since the trail. Oscar was alive, I knew that much; he had survived his prison term, but that was all I knew. It was probably for the best that I knew no more. Yet somehow I always expected that someday, something would arrive. I would not conclude my life without hearing from him again.

I was right, of course.

The letter read:

My dear Mr. Holmes:

It has been two years since last we spoke, but it is a conversation-and you a person-that I am not likely to forget. I promised you that day in (?) that if Oscar were ever to have need of you, I would write and tell you so. I fear such a time has fallen upon him. Although it has been months since Oscar has returned to his life, his health is poor and he refuses to do much to change his situation. I am unsure of anything else I can do. There is no need for us to meet, and below I enclose the address in Paris where you may find him.

I remain yours sincerely,

Robert Ross

The letter gave an address of a M. Melmouth in the Hotel Marsollier, 13 rue Marsollier, an address I knew to be in the heart of the city. It could only have been worse than I thought, if he was using an alias. I read the letter thrice more before closing it, and storing it in my pocket. I felt suddenly thrust back into a world that I both feared and rejoiced in. The next several days would be trying, of this I was certain.

I remained standing still as a statue in the centre of the room, lost in my own reverie, when Watson came in. He was carrying the mail that I had already abandoned in seeing that letter, but he ceased flipping through it when he saw me.

"Why, Holmes! What on Earth are you doing?"

Although I saw him enter in all his glory, it still did not register. My heart plunged into my throat and I was forced to give ever effect of regaining my composure. "Nothing," I told him. "Nothing at all."

"Are you feeling alright, old boy?"

"Perfectly acceptable for the circumstances."

He studied me with narrowed eyes at that. As I have already mentioned, Watson is the only soul I have ever been graced to know that has the ability to read my moods. How he came upon such a talent, I cannot say, but it is more than just the fact that we have shared rooms for the better part of sixteen years. There is something akin to that word again, that word that tries men's souls…

"Are you sure you're not ill? You do look a bit off-colour to me."

"What are you basing that on? Logic? Intuition? Romanticism?" I sneered forcibly so that he would be put off, as I tried to force to logic back into me.

But he was not so easily diverted from me in these days, as it were when first we met, and his honour asserted that he should not meddle with my personal affairs. "Certainly not romanticism. Phy-scian, I should think, and Holmes you look as though you have a fever."

To my horror, he came straight at me with his hand outstretched. I turned completely rigid and threw myself against the side-board and away from him hard enough to feel it in my spine. "God, Watson! What do you think you are doing?"

"Seeing if you are feverous. What's come over you?"

"I can assure you I am not, doctor. Kindly restrain yourself."

He did stop, but looked equal parts concerned and hurt. Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, he grimaced. "You act as though I were going to hurt you."

"Don't speak rubbish." Oh, if only he could know how very opposite of hurt his touch would be.

"Are you certain you're well?" He was studying me in that simplistic, yet torturous way of his. The wet eyes would roam over me; the lips would purse and twitch. His entire body tensed. I could feel his muscle quiver through bronzed skin with my very mind.

"Don't look at me so." I whispered and turned away. His very presence in proximity was enough to arouse every atom of my being. He was close enough that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck, causing me to pulse.

"There is something wrong, isn't there? Holmes? Tell me, won't you?" His voice pitched higher with worry. "Please…"

I could not have possibly turned to him then. If I had seen him in that second, I am certain I would have spilled every secret locked safely away in both my heart and mind. "There is nothing I can tell you, my dear doctor. Other than that I have been called to Paris to-morrow. I cannot say with much certainty how long I will be away, but I shouldn't think more than a few days. However, I will be completely inaccessible for the while."

"Paris? What on Earth is in Paris? A case?"

"Of a matter."

"Then why don't I"-

"My train will depart quite early," I interrupted. "I shan't join you for supper. If you will excuse me, I have some small matters to settle before I depart." I turned to him for a darting second so that I may have a picture to keep locked away in my mind for the next several days. "Fare-well, my friend." Leaving him in his mist of confusion, I entered my chamber and closed the door softly behind me. It was dark as a tomb inside, but I didn't bother about the light. Sometimes one prefers the dark.

1 Francis, Lord Drumlanrig, was Bosie's elder brother. He was the lover of Sir Rosebury, prime minister at the time of Wilde's trial. Queensbury probably threatened to expose Rosebury if he did not back Wilde's prosecution. Francis committed suicide.

2 Perhaps Holmes is portrayed as a bit too psychic and intuitive here, but I always found him, in the canon and elsewhere, to have been able to use his powers to tell not only where people have been, but where they will be. And he's right. Queensbury dies in 1899, having spent his last years alienating all of his children and going practically insane convinced that people are hounding him for what he did to Wilde. Can anyone say poetic justice?