A Scandal of No Importance

by amalcolm1

In the fall of 1897, Holmes receives a letter calling him to Paris to an old friend. And former lover. Expecting to help this person, he is instead forced to reveal his true feelings for Watson, and perhaps receive a little help of his own along the way.

3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thought I was never coming back to this, eh? Well, I've been rather busy with my other story "Confessions," but I had the sudden urge to get the next part of this up. I hope you enjoy, and as, always, feed the ego…I mean, review ;)

Paris- November of 1897

If he had not been Irish, he would most certainly have been Parisian. Paris was the perfect city for Oscar. The old Oscar, that is, for I had every reason to anticipate great change in the man. Robert Ross had been very cordial in his letter, considering our very limited acquaintance, but openly insistent. I knew enough to realise he was not a man to beg, but it was clear enough that he was nearly at that point. I am unsure of anything else I can do.He had not said how exactly I may help, but if there was a chance I could be of use, I would make my appearance. "Nature teaches beasts to know their friends1," I once had read of the Master, and thought it of myself. Beasts. Is that what we were? Those among us would probably have said as much. The invertswere in league with the Beast. How I detested that word! Invert…

Watson had said that the real victims were Oscar's wife and children. And in as much as I could see that, I saw beyond the angels in their silver frames. I saw the dark shadows and abandoned warehouses. The dingy faced rent-boys with thin cloth caps pulled down over bleak eyes and dirt-smeared cheeks. I saw even the velvet-cloaked Lords as they sprinted from similar areas holding their toppers and sticks tightly and taking cabs so that no might recognise them. I saw them as victims as well. Victims of a disease that nature had seen fit to curse them with, and one that they were helpless to control. These were the victims of the night. Of panic and paranoia. There might be a 'Wilde' anywhere. London was both the only prison and the only salvation for them.

And as for myself, I felt as much as prisoner as Oscar no doubt had, only of a different kind.

Paris radiated in every way that London did not. The charming cafés, the gaiety of quant right-bank shops, and the overtly sociable residents chattering in French so rapidly I could hardly keep up. Even the Notre Dame de Paris spoke to the residents and holiday makers of a bright sun glowing through a million pieces of stained glass, promising redemption and sanctuary despite its gothic horrors. In London, it would have spoken only of fear and retribution. Even the weather promised of late autumn amiability, with winter perhaps a thousand years off. The winds were warm, the skies were bright and the air filled my nostrils with sinful smells. No coal-fogs forcing their way into one's throat, no death stench of the Thames, no soot blackening the buildings, residents and souls. As my cab passed the Louvre, where once I had been of some use to the local authorities2, I thought of Paris as a painting of Manet: the pleasantries of daily life, water, café's, picnicking and naked female breasts. London, to my mind, was more like Blake. Insane etchings of death and torture.3 One filled the body with cheer, the other with fear.

I hated it. The whole of Paris reeked poisonous. I would give my devotion to London any day over this.

I had little difficulty in finding the place. The Hotel Marsollier4 was near the right bank, but brushed away like dirt under a rug into a section that appeared unaware that a new republic was occurring around them. The depression of two decades previous seemed to not have ended here. With its grey walls and sad, sagging demeanour, it seemed to me the sort of hovel that a poor man would take his whore, or the ignorant criminal might conduct his trade. He was here? How could he be here? My heart swelled with sympathy, but I forced all such emotions away. Oscar must not see pity on my face. He might revel in such things, but I would not.

I took my time about entering. In a wig, some rubber additions to the nose and chin and a less dignified suit of brown cotton, I had managed to give the impression of a farmer from the near provinces. In the city to take in the sites, perhaps, but certainly to give trouble to no one. My true identity was one that was known even here, and I had every reason to protect it. Leaning nonchalantly against the cool, crumbling stone, I stared across the remains of a cobblestone walkway infested with weeds and slowly smoked a cigarette, studying the Seine that was so very near. It was green and healthy, quite drinkable in fact, and still home to many fish, unlike the stench and rotted waters of London's river. But like our own Thames, it was the climax of the city, both the beginning and the end. If the capital were to fall, burn to the ground, become swept into the seven winds, the rivers would still be there for some future generation to re-build upon. Reliability was something I depended upon in my own life to stabilize my mind. Like the reliability of the river always being there, I could always rely on myself. On my own abilities and experiences. That was the difference between Oscar and I. He could not rely on himself. He had led himself to betrayal.

And Watson. Watson was the very definition of reliability.

But it would not do to think of him. Not now. I willed him out of my mind…or at least to the darker alcoves of the brain that one never acknowledges having. I kept him there all the hours of the day.

Inside the hotel, I tried to find some sort of solace, some saving-grace that might soothe my mind as to Oscar being here, but apart from the dim shadow of obscurity he needed, there were none. M. Melmoth was occupying the ground-floor room left, with a view of the Seine. The sun shined on the filth of the hallway, and I could still hear the clerk that had directed me clearing the heavy phlegm from his chest. I wondered briefly if he was aware he had not long to live. From the swelling and redness of his entire upper body, I would say his cancer was in the advanced stages. Watson would be proud that, at times, I did listen to his endless ramblings of information from the medical journals that he read and occasionally spoke of me to. Superior vena cava syndrome or something of the like. Perhaps the poor clerk could not afford treatment. Heavy feelings of pessimism clouded my mind. I reached a sloppily-painted teal coloured door. With a careful glance, to make sure I was still alone, I removed my disguise. I must face him as myself. Beyond that garish door lay the great martyr.

I could but hope that one day the world would see him as such.

"Entrée," a voice heavily indebted to Irish brogue called out when I knocked, and the door opened slowly with a heavy groan.

And then, nearly seven years since we had met face-to-face, I found myself before him again. I had hoped for at least a second or two to gather data, to acclimate myself to the damage two years of hard labour had wrecked upon him. But there he stood before me, like some fallen deity, changed in every conceivable way, and my reaction leapt from my mouth before I could stop it.

"Good God!"

Of course, I felt a slight burning shame in the face and my lack of courtesy, however unintentional it was. But all I could imagine on the boat and train here was the face of Oscar at his prime, when first we had met. The thick, glossy mane, worn longer than any other gentleman would dare, like the alpha lion of the pride. The clear green eyes that radiated wit and wisdom. Teeth, slightly crooked, chin and nose a bit prominent, much like the ancient Greeks and Romans whose civilisation he so admired, and overall, far from the traditional handsomeness that many of the boys flocking about him possessed. However, he had been so instantly intriguing to me that I nearly felt mesmerised for the first time in my life. He pulsed with a secret agenda that was completely obvious. Never had I come in contact with another that was so infinitely easy to read. Every elegant movement of his body, every whisper he spoke to the boy on his arm reeked of bold indifference to the rules of society. I found myself for the first time fascinated with another being. Wanting only to know how such a creature of light could survive in the dark.

"Oh, do not go into all that," said Oscar, instantly thrusting me back into the present. "God though I may be, religion is such a dulsatory subject. But despite it…my dear boy, how delightful to see you."

My dear boy.The title was one I would allow only he to get away with.

"You should not be surprised that I'm here. You know I have an insatiable curiosity." My heart had ceased its sickening rate of pounding and was returning to normal. The initial shock was wearing off. He was a completely different man. His hair nearly sheared completely off, lines and heavy grey shadows mapping the recent past on his face, and the weight that had been starved off in prison was coming back with a vengeance. Most likely in the form of a liquid diet, I reasoned noticing several empty Courvoisierbottles scattered about the room, as well as a half-consumed bottle of cheap French champagne.

"Well, perhaps nothing you do should be surprising…providing you don't stray from your routine, which of course you would never do." He reached toward me shaking slightly, and I froze as his hand rested on my cheek. I felt like the hand of a poor labourer. "My dear Sherlock…how British you look!" His hand was tracing downward: my neck, my breast, my lapel. It stopped just north of my waistcoat pocket. "The English have an atrocious sense of fashion. One can hardly judge whether their sullen attire is because they are mourning a death or a marriage."

Of course, he was hardly one to speak of such things. His clothing was part of his message and movement. The Aestitics, who believed something of l'art pour l'art.A strange little group of others like Oscar, and in which I fit as well as square peg in a round hole. They supposedly saw beauty even in the ordinary object, and tried to recreate this beauty in all facets of their lives-including their manner of dress. As uninterested as I was in his hobbies, they had added to my strange appeal to understand a man who lived so opposite a life as I, and yet shared the deepest recesses of his soul with me.

"You should perhaps come in," said Oscar. Why was I finding it so damnably hard to conduct myself in the now? Every one of my senses kept forcing me into the past, to a period of less than one week eight years ago that I should, in all good faith, try to erase."It really is a horrid looking hallway. One so beautiful as yourself should not try and glorify it by standing there."

"Lying is not an art that should be revived. You should leave the lies for the professionals. The law-makers." I stepped past him as he took my scent in. Heavy shag and hair tonic. To me, it was a common and hardly remarkable smell. It spoke volumes for how lonely he truly must have been.

The rooms consisted of a small sitting area leading into a bedroom and a private bath. That was all. It was completely over-decorated with the garishness that defined the man: flowers, both fake and gradually dying lilies and daisies stood in four different chipped vases. Peacock feathers were strewn about the table tops. A pink and yellow Chinese fan hung askew on the wall. Cheaply made and brightly dyed woven rugs covered nearly every inch of the threadbare carpeting. It was like gilt- a sheen of gold over tarnished metal. The second-hand decorations could not hide the ripped beige wall-paper, infested with mildew from decades of heavy Parisian springs. I watched in strange fascination as a water beetle climbed across one of several dusty piles of books.

In typical fashion, he had surrounded himself with books. I walked slowly over to the thickest of these stacks, the one the insect was hastening to abandon and ran my still gloved finger over the bindings.Swinburne, Housman, Pator, Rossetti…nothing especially shocking for the man. The bottom of the pile consisted of old Strandmagazines, some translated into French, and containing the dramatic romances of my career that my doctor so liked to enthral his readers with.

With a wave of his hand, and a gentle thrust to my shoulder, I was offered an overstuffed purple chair, easily the most comfortable of what was available, but I declined. Slowly, I lowered myself into an unstable wicker seat. Comfort was a luxury I would not afford myself at the moment. Alertness. All my reason. But not comfort. To be comfortable was to be distracted, unaware of one's surroundings. That was a path I had been down once before…

"Something to drink?"

"Have you anything besides cheap cognac? I detest gutter rot."

Oscar smiled. "I have not fallen so far from grace that I cannot still offer my guest a decent cup of tea. Or champagne, if you prefer." I motioned to that half-empty bottle, dripping with perspiration.

"No, no…only tea. Perhaps later we can toast to each other's…good fortunes. But for now, we shall have to create lies about what may be."

There was no kitchen area to the room, so the tea was prepared in a cast-iron kettle atop the fireplace. I sat mere inches from my host, watching and studying in silence. His short, delicate fingers manipulated the match, pressing it firmly against the brick until it hissed to life. He snatched a handful of newspaper, Le Figaro and twisted it delicately before putting his fire to it. It caught instantly. In three minutes, there was howling and steam shot across the room.

"We are more alike than either of us would care to believe, Sherlock," said Oscar as he slowly and methodically wiped the newsprint from his hands with a rag. "At times, I see it in your choice of words. Although it is your choice of silences that are more telling."

"My silences…" said I, trying to not sound intrigued.

"Oh, yes. A silence frequently tells far more than even the most long-winded of speeches. I thought once to create a play with no words…only gestures and longing glances by the players…but it is so hard to write silences down on paper, as you know. But your silences are a discussion for later"-

"Why wait?"

"Because once I was told that patience is a virtue. And although I know little of patience, I know much of virtue. Yours in particular, my dear boy." He was smiling quite venomously now, and his knowledge of me, his leverage, was frustrating.

And I knew what he was attempting. I had seen it practiced many times before. His words-so clever, so perfect, were like a tonic that surrendered my mind to him with complete compliance. I can say only that when it came to Wilde, it must have been a weak will indeed that I possessed. He was moving closer to me, and the smell of the Courvoisier was on his mouth. It was a clever mouth, satiny smooth and with a knowledgeable tongue. It was that tongue that had forced my mind and body into strange actions I previously thought impossible of myself. He was a master. A singularly gifted genius.

But that was in the past. And I fear that is where it must stay. And so I put my hand to the mouth of M. Melmoth, stopping him, and stopping myself. "No, Oscar. You mustn't."

"Mustn't I?" He asked, somewhat jovially. I saw in an instant that he expected this reaction.

A realisation suddenly occurred to me, and one that should have some time ago. "You do not seem surprised that I am here. I was so overwhelmed…so shocked by you that I only now realise it."

He smiled broadly and gave me a slight chuckle. Taking my hand he raised me to my feet. "Come, my dear. This stuffy room is not the place for such a delicate discussion. You must walk with me."

The afternoon was fading to crimson around Paris. The breeze from the Seine was feeling more like November now that the sun was falling behind it. Oscar took my arm and led me away from the Marsollier toward the heart of the district. "It is nearly time for supper. To make up for your unannounced intrusion, you may treat."

It is difficult for one to surmise whether he was being facetious or not. We walked in relative peace, conjuring memories of similar expeditions with Watson. I would pretend to not be interested in such matters, preferring to be about my chemicals, but in the end, I would acquiesce. A change of air will serve you well, Holmes,he would say standing over me with my overcoat and stick. I would lead him through Regent's Park with his arm in mine, and neither of us would find it necessary to speak. We knew each other so well that words were not required to amuse the other. There was only the joy of his company and the study of his habits. The doctor walked with military pride, holding his head high and his chest out. His boots kept a perfect rhythm with the pavement and I noticed that his steady eyes roamed the area, seemingly studying every tree and rock. I assumed this to be a reaction to war, where he unconsciously kept a look-out for the enemy in hiding. If only he knew that it was at his very hip. My entire body would sweat on those occasions, whatever the weather.

"Your distraction is most charming," said Oscar into my ear. "Perhaps you would care to share? I am always interested in appealing flights of fancy."

"Not a flight of fancy at all, I am sorry to report," I lied. "In fact, I was noticing those boys over there." I pointed to a group of three, all younger than one and twenty and all prostitutes, clearly. They wore those infernal green carnations that marked them and leaned suggestively with legs slightly spread and hips jutted forward. They surrounded a small statue of Napoleon Bonaparte upon a reared horse at the entrance of a park opposite us. Even from ten paces away, I saw the recognition in their eyes. "Friends of yours?" I asked, making my voice more than a little ironic.

"All friends in need…at least for a few lonely hours. You would not judge them so harshly, my dear, if you knew their stories." He pointed at the tallest of the three, a rather plain looking dark-haired youth in a bottle-green jacket who wore a confident grin that did not match his tapping foot and slightly shaking hands. "His name is Marceau. At fifteen, his father tried to castrate him when he found him…in a compromising position with another boy. He has been on that corner ever since. And the beautiful blond with the full lips is called Amaury. His story is less dramatic. Merely an unfortunate victim of poverty trying to earn a little money to support his mother and sister. They believe him to be employed in a newspaper office, I believe."

"Then they are very naïve individuals. Where, prey, did they think him to be when he was in prison? And I find it hard to believe they could suppose him to be employed in a newspaper office knowing that he is illiterate. And as far as the other is concerned, he is suffering from syphilis. He is a danger to every man who would pick him up. Including you, my dear Oscar."

Oscar glanced at me as he gripped my arm tighter, pulling me along at a faster pace, as if afraid they would overhear. Watson would have found my little deductions fascinating, and he never ceased to think me amazing for making them. My dear Holmes! You truly are a psychic!I smiled at the memory of him upon our settee, with his head thrown back as a massive chortle wracked his body. It was a glorious sight.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Surely you wish to explain?"

He did not sound as though an explanation was something he desired, but I did, nonetheless. "The blond youth is wearing prison-issued boots of a fair quality, suggesting that recently he has spent some time doing hard labour." Oscar winced noticeably at this, but I continued. "His near illiteracy can be determined by the initials on the heel of his left boot-M.C.V.The letters are extremely crude and ill-formed, suggesting that he is quite uneducated. As for the darker fellow, his disease is in the primary stage, but I can see the beginning of the syphillic soar appearing on the neck. He may not even realise he had been infected yet."

"Does it please you, Sherlock?"

"I beg your pardon?"

He grimaced and motioned left, unto a main road covered with Parisians of every shape and vocation. No rent boys here. We were gradually making our way into the civilized part of the city and turned on to the Rue de Plage. "Does it please you to reduce everyone you meet to a mere jumble of observations and statistics? Really, haven't you any compassion?"

It seemed a fair question. After all, I expected many who knew me only through Watson's tales may think compassion something beyond me. In one, the case involving the theft of a photograph of the king of Bohemia, Watson says that I am a perfect reasoning machine. He thought all of the softer emotions beyond me. Is it fair to blame him when I have tried to convince myself of such a falsity? I certainly tryto keep all of the grit out of my mechanical brain. But like Mrs. Hudson eradicating dust, it is a task that is impossible to win. Such an irrational and terrifying thing as love did invade me. I was reminded of a forced holiday spent in obscure Cornwall in March of this very year.5

It had been an unexpected case. A fascinating case, filled with those little eccentricities that mean nothing alone, but spell out the fate of a man when taken together. A ring. A fire in warm weather. Some misplaced gravel. And a most rare and deadly powder. I smiled at the memory of the faces of the perplexed regulars, so completely far from the truth. I had caught the culprit, of course. I had solved the murder of two people, and explained every thread of the chain from start to finish. And then, I had let the man, a nefarious African lion-hunter, leave to country. To go free.

Watson, the epitome of English flesh and blood, had allowed me to, but I could tell from the clouded expression in his dark eyes that his loyalty to his country's laws were battling with his own conscious. He had not to say a word to make this abundantly clear.

"After all, Watson, our investigation has been independent, and so our action shall be also. Surely, you would not denounce this man?"

"Certainly not," he answered, but I knew what he was thinking:Denouncing him is not the point, Holmes. There are laws to be considered.

"If it had been someone you had loved, would you have acted as our lion-hunter? Would you have killed her murderer in order to obtain justice?"

He would not lie to me just to prove a point. "I fear I might," he said as he lit his pipe. "It does not make it right, but in my despair…perhaps all men are capable of such things. Although I suppose you would say you are immune. Because you have never loved?"

I have never loved. The game of shadows was played very well, if I may be allowed to boast. He would never suspect me. Never.

Never.

"You have no right to condemn my disinterest in humanity when you yourself exploit it," said I to Oscar. "Do you think you are doing those unfortunate children any good by inviting them to sleep with you, paying them a bit of money that they will probably waste on the bottle, and then listening to their woes? You are only aiding them in driving them further and further from redemption."

I had thought this would anger him. I think perhaps I had even said it in part to do just that. He was not blameless in this life. But instead of arguing with me as a normal man would be compelled to do, he kissed me upon my cheek. "Really, I did not think you one to agree with me! It is so completely true that charity creates nothing but sin! To think that the great detective is trying to lead me away from sin…down the path of virtue, no less!"

"For God's sake, man!" I exclaimed, pulling momentarily away from him. "Why must you be so vulgar! Someone could have seen!" For a brief second I had the horrid realisation that I was nothing more than a renter myself. A male whore, something far worse for a man. Women pray upon the weakness of men to sell their often only asset. But when a man does so, it means he is incapable applying his intellect and practicality, which should be superior to his counter-sex. No money had exchanged our hands, but our tryst had not been without price. For Oscar it had been a curiosity, a chance to know me as no one else had. For myself, it had been something far worse. One of the seven great sins. This realisation only angered me further. "Can you not be serious, Wilde, for once in your damned life?"

But seriousness seemed a state of mind beyond him. Perhaps that was how he had escaped the inferno that is the English gaol.

"You are serious enough for us both dear boy. How I do like it when you call me by my surname, though! It is something you have never done before. It makes you sound so completely authoritative and masculine." He gave pause to consider a point, clutching my arm tighter. Whatever it was he wanted to say, he instead pointed to a small restaurant directly ahead of us, our destination. "The wine is superb, I think you shall find. And the food is completely delectable. Of course, you are used to the flavourless concoctions of your own country-the charred meats and mashed vegetables, so this may all come as a shock to your system."

The atmosphere was dark and secretive, but the ambiance was one of romance, something I thought inappropriate. Wilde, apparently, was known to this place, for the matre'd said "Bienvenue en arrière, M. Melmoth,"as he led us to a table in the back. "J'espère que vous bien?

"Non, redoutable, j'ai peur. Mon ami espère changer cela, cependant.6"Oscar smiled brightly as if we were sharing something special, although certainly he did not know I spoke the language nearly fluently. I waited until our man had departed in search of menus to say:

"Is that why you think I am here? To 'cheer you up,' as it were?"

"Oh, no. Robbie would never send you for that. You clearly know nothing of happiness. You are here because I requested you to be."

I am sure I did a poor job of hiding my surprise. "You knew that Mr. Ross wrote me that letter?"

"Of course. I asked him to. You really must try the coq au vin. They make it with pancetta, and both red wine and brandy. It is the stuff of perfection. Your taste-buds deserve a well-earned holiday from shag tobacco and strong coffee, I should think."

Ignoring that, I starred at him affected. "If you are responsible for my being here, than I would kindly ask you to explain. I was under the impression that he wished me to see you, so that I might help you."

"Robbie is a dear boy," said Oscar as he pulled out a silver case and cigarette. "He spoke of you frequently while I was…away. Really, he is the most charming story-teller I have come across, other than myself. Now, Sherlock, you mustn't be mad at Robbie or I. I simply wished to thank you for what you did…and you must not deny that you have sent money for my up-keep, for then I should be compelled to believe you and my little gift of thanks would all be for naught."

"What on Earth are you on about? What 'gift of thanks.'?" I had never felt quite so in the dark before.

Our waiter returned then to pour us each an aperitif of vermouth. I could see no 'gifts' here on his part. Rather an expensive little reach into my own purse. Oscar waved him away when he had finished, saying we would order shortly. He thrust the glass into my hand. "Drink, dear boy. Drink and a toast to your happy future. Your prediction of earlier seems to have come true."

I gazed in bewilderment. "What are you"-

"Your future with Dr. Watson, of course. Robbie tells me you are quite hopelessly in love with him."

1 Coriolanus, Act II, Scene I

2 Not a canonical fact, which in "The Final Problem" says Holmes was only employed by the French government on a matter of importance, but in the Granada version of the story, they make this problem out to be the theft of the Mona Lisa by Moriarty. A fun little edition.

3 Blake spent the last years of his life illustrating Dante's Inferno.They are considered among his greatest contributions to art, and he contributed much.

4 Wilde did stay at this hotel, which today has been completely renovated. I'm not sure exactly what it was like in 1897, and it may have better than I describe. Take it as author's prerogative.

5 For those of you also reading "Confessions of the Master," a similar scene may appear in the next chapter, but with some subtle changes.

6 Welcome back, M. Melmoth. I hope that you have been well? No, dreadful, I am afraid. My friend hopes to change that, however.