Wilde

There's a piece of prose poetry in my hand penned by a child not thirteen, yet far more perfect than anything I would have dared to create.

A heavy sigh and I carefully fold the treasure to return it to its envelope. I have known for many years the young would be my downfall.

The envelope stays in my hand as I rise. Cyril's name is the only one visible on this piece of sanctifying grace though I see clearly whose invisible one is behind it.

But what to do about it?

Were I the same man I once was, I might put pen to paper and create a fascinating fictional coup de grâce in which a certain doctor falls into the arms of a charming bohemian with a soul not fit for consumption by society.

My hand closes around the neck of a perspiring bottle of The Devil's wine1. I feel its wet shaft drip through my fingers. And splatter onto my trouser leg.

I regard this stain for some time. A random stain like the very one my own name now was throughout Her Majesty's realm. Could I commit such an innocent to the same fate?

Once again, I rise with my golden prize tapping against my hip. His goodness had done much to shield me and his genius had done much to shield himself.

What to do? What to do?

My eye catches the wink of silver on my side table. His cigarette case. I had forgotten he'd abandoned it to my care. In my hand, it bites with a bitter winter chill. Completely unyielding. His monogram, SH,carefully engraved into the silver lining.

A groan escapes my lips.

There is perfection to life after all. One that clearly illustrates that a man like Sherlock Holmes would never be sentimental enough to mark his own cigarette case. Sentimentality was a feature that only stained his better-half.

As it should be with most sins, I wait until dark to perpetuate my act. I sip a very hot cup of café and nibble at a baguette and some rather pungent brie. I take up the pen in hand. A stream of prose poetry nearly as effectual as that written by my flesh and blood emerges.

I write the address in a bold and completely masculine hand such as he would be accustomed to:

'Dr. John Watson

221 B Baker Street

London, NW1

England'

Watson

Holmes returned as suddenly as he'd left a week before the letter arrived. Wherever he'd been and whatever he'd done remained unsaid. But this was in no way uncommon for the man, as Holmes was frequently mum on the subject of his activities when he did not require my assistance. He was otherwise completely himself. Which is, ignoring me for hours or days on end, racing in and out of the flat at all sorts of ungodly hours and indulging in his various filthy habits.

The letter sat with the morning paper, a few bills, several adverts and my breakfast. I thought little of it as I spooned squab and tomato onto my plate, filling my cup to the brim with Mrs. Hudson's pungent coffee. Holmes's foul clay pipe lay abandoned sideways on the arm of his chair, an ant-like trail of tobacco leading from his bedroom to the hearth of the fireplace. So he was up and out already. And probably not in the best of moods, as indicated by his choice of instrument. Noticing this was a trifle of course, barely perceptible, but I had learned to look for the small things.

One and one-half decades living with the man had rubbed some small bit of sense off on me I suppose. The thought made me smile. At least it was one of his more acceptable traits that I had acquired.

I was adding sugar to my second cup of coffee whilst devouring the sports page of the Timeswhen the letter caught my eye. There was clearly a French stamp on it. The words Republique Françaisecaught my eye. I picked it up to verify. Sure enough, my name was the one addressed and the postmark read Paris.

Paris? I knew no one in all of France. Although Holmes had supposedly just returned from there. That was a bit queer…

I ripped the flap off and pulled a single piece of paper out. Thick and good quality, buttercream in colour. For some reason, a dull chill ran the length of my spine arriving clearly in the spot of my old wound. Something was not right. Forty-plus years of life, a war and two decades of medicine had taught me foreboding.

And it usually stood me in good stead. The letter read as follows:

My Dear Doctor,

As a medical man, I am sure you are aware of instances in nature that are perceived as abnormal and scandalous. I speak specifically of sexual acts between two men. There is no point in overt, flowery language so I come to the point. The man you once called 'the best and wisest man you have known' is, what is called in the back alleys of London, a bugger.

A sodimite. An Uranist. Aconnoisseurof Spartan culture. I hope you forgive the vulgarity of my tone but I find frankness a virtue in my line of work.

You must come to me here at this address: 13 rue Marsollier, the Hotel Marsollier, room one.

You must not, under any circumstances, inform Mr. Holmes of anything in this correspondence. To do so will mean that he will be lost to you for all time. The specifics I prefer to discuss in person with you. I will expect your charming countenance to grace my door-step no later than Thursday, the 24thof this month.

Yours in expectation,

Sebastian Melmoth

Wilde

I have one atrocious habit I wish I could break myself of: falling asleep in my chair. To do so tends to mean I wake with saliva pasted to my chin, the imprint of wicker on my cheek and a bodily soreness the most vigorous of nightly exertions cannot match.

This is the hellish part of the game. The waiting. Such as how it was the preceding two years of my life. In gaol, it is all one knows. It is all one canknow. Yet all one wishes to forget.

Ah! Some one rapping, rapping at my chamber door. And not just any ordinary knock. It is an English knocking. A soldier's knock. There is quite a recognizable element of the treatment of fist to wood that immediately identifies heis here.

His Boswell that he would be lost without, as Sherlock once confessed to the world.

"Entre," I call out after attempting to make myself presentable with a moistened handkerchief. As it were with my past theatrical successes, I now have a rôle to play.

And if I do it right, it will surely bring the house down.

Watson

I took only my medical bag (habit has dictated that I am rarely without it) and a change of clothing. I left the house before Holmes had a chance to return. There was no time to think. I would not allowmyself time to think. If I had, I knew I couldn't do it. He would return and one look at my flushed face and twitching hands would be enough to deduce I was on the verge of shattering every nerve in my body.

I hurriedly informed Mrs. Hudson that a medical emergency had arisen and that I would be out of the city for a day or two. I asked her to make my apologies to Mr. Holmes about the suddenness of my departure.

"Well, he's gone behind yourback enough, doctor," my landlady said with a clever grin. "I'd say turnabouts fair game."

I winced. Yes, yes, he has,hasn't he? Gone behind my back indeed.

I stopped at my bank and withdrew ₤500. It was more, far more in fact, than I could afford to lose but what else could I do? Blackmail is an ugly game as I knew full well. Our adventure against the blackguard Charles Augustus Milverton had taught me just how ugly it could get.

Perhaps that's why I tucked my revolver into my jacket pocket.

Wilde

He comes.

He is wearing a black worsted suit, black military-style boots. His black bowler is clenched in one fist. The only bit of colour is a navy four-in-hand2 knotted tightly to his neck. He could be the most clubbable member of The Carlton3. A walking symbol of the British Empire.

He comes closer, the floor groaning under his unsteady step. "Are you Mr. Melmoth?"

I nod my consent. What a pretty package my dear detective has picked to ruin himself over! Eye of brave brown, a well-proportioned frame—a soldier's body. The moustache is trimmed to hair's width of perfection.

But Sherlock is far too fundamental to fall in love with such trivialities.

"How dare you sir! How dare you think you can blackmail a man like Sherlock Holmes!"

Aha! The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple. Even with detectives. And doctors. "Would you like some whiskey?" I motion to a fresh bottle I have set out upon the card table to double as a dining set.

"I do not drink with…creatures such as you."

"Such a puerile maxim…letting good alcohol go to waste to prove a point."

His teeth are grinding. Ten paces away and I could see his neck as it flushed an unbecoming shade of scarlet. "You are a blackmailer. The most foul, repulsive creature upon the face of the Earth."

Indeed. I am. But not for the reason he thinks.

"What do you want?" He is pacing about my chair now. I wish I could take my eyes off of him. To make this easy. But love never was meant to be so elementary.

"I believe I made my intentions clear in my note," I say. "Here is how such negotiations work. I inform you that I have proof—say, a letter. Possibly even a photograph. You beg me not to ruin the man's reputation"—

"You blackguard!"

I smile and hold up the back of a photo of the loveliest child I have ever laid eyes on. Even more so than my dear Bosie. But the doctor sees only that I have a picture—any sort of picture—and it could be damning to his friend. The scarlet drains to white. "Now I think you are ready to hear what I have to say."

Watson

It isn't as though I believed a word of it. That was certainly not what bothered me. No.

The train lurched and my revolver jabbed into my ribs. A reminder that I had sunk far along the road to the hottest fires of Hell. And he led me there, hand in glove, whether his intentions were good or not, as the proverb says. How could he do this to me? The best friend I had ever had.

I forgot to remind myself that I do not believe this Melmoth's lies.

My lungs heaved out a heavy sigh and my head fell back against the rest. I tried to remember some sign, some definite clue he had given me. But how does a decent, normal gentleman see depravity in the one man closest to him?

I looked to the window, past the reflection to the countryside. Holmes had once told me something, a line I should have no reason to remember except that it filled me with a curious sort of horror. He had said something about the vilest London alleys not presenting a more dreadful record of sin than the beautiful countryside. And I had told him how horrible that was.

"But think of the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places and none the wiser."

Yes, thatI could remember verbatim. How true, Holmes. How true.

Wilde

His standards are lowered sufficiently after I prove my authenticity. He takes not one, but two full servings of my cheap whiskey. And still his breathing is irregular as his fingers nervously fiddle with the glass.

He is the proof that I laid before the good doctor:

"Sherlock Holmes would never engage in such a…an activity."

That is Watson trying to convince himself.

"I mean, even if I suspected his nature ran to such a…perversion, he would never—he couldn't risk such a thing. His being a logician, a detective…well, it is more than mere occupation or a job. It is what keeps him sane."

That is Watson failing to convince himself.

Now, I am no analytical genius like Sherlock but I occasionally have a word or two to say on human nature in general. And I find, (generally), that one protests vigorously what one already knows to be true. "You yourself say that he holds little regard for women"—

"That does notmean he has so for men!"

I fear it does, my dear Sherlock's Watson.

"He sought me out and not the other way 'round," I tell him. "He never gave a name not did I ask. But some names circulate without the wagging of tongues. We were intimate just the once"—

He slams his fist on the table. "I don't wish to hear this!"

"He has a scar on his right buttock, round, about two inches across."

Again, the protective fist flies dangerously close to my poor table. This time, however, it freezes midair just above the surface.

His eyes suddenly are flooded with brown as the pupils dilate to the size of a spec. I hear the harmonic sounds of a victory horn in the near distance.

"You, as his doctor, knew of course."

When those soldier's eyes fall on me, I could nearly shudder for the hatred I see. But all he does is nod. "He…he fell from a horse at the age of eleven and landed on a wire barb. Several nerve endings were served and are causing him the occasional rheumatism. He told me as much and allowed me to inject the muscle with morphine. He is not one to complain of pain but…" He rubs his mouth as if he suddenly bit into something distasteful.

I wonder if I need go on? Well, I suppose if we are to journey to Hades we may as well do so in comfort and certainty. "I suppose I should tell you then, John,that when he reached his bliss, it was your name he cried out."

Watson

There was this bloke I recall from my Army days, a man I hadn't thought of in years, but the memory of whom I suddenly was forced to relive.

His name was…Eckles? Or maybe Eddles. Something of the like. A small fellow of a thin frame but a strongly chiseled face and body that no one, I dare say, would have seen any effeminacy in. He was a cavalryman, as I remember it, and under normal circumstances we shouldn't chance to meet (there is a certain amount of snobbery in the military as in other facets of life that separates cavalry from artillery, medical from the front lines), but one boiling day as we sat in camp waiting for orders, fighting only boredom, this young lieutenant sought me out.

"Pardon me, doctor…Dr. Watson, is it?"

I looked up, somewhat annoyingly, as the heat was praying on everyone's nerves. "It is indeed. What can I help you with?"

"Well, I…" his eyes shifted about, as if scanning the area for prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. "This isn't a question you may come across much. But I suppose it falls under the banner of a medical query."

"Yes?"

He cleared his throat. "I seem to have this, err, curious affliction. And I cannot shake it. It vexes me constantly. And I wish—no I beg—that you could make it go away."

"My dear fellow! Pray tell me what it is."

He did. I can still recall his flushed red face, his nervous hand shaking, his quivering lips. The poor lad. He couldn't have been more than five and twenty and though I thought him more my colleague at the time, I now remember him as hardly more than a boy.

And what did I tell him? What was the cure to the unnamable demon that lived in him?

"I don't know that there really is a 'cure' per se…"

"Please! Doctor, I assure you, I will try anything."

"Well…have you tried women? Perhaps if you had one, preferably one well-experienced, if you catch my meaning, you might realise the pleasures that lay there."

Yes. That was my advice. Whether Eckles (or Eddles) took it, I cannot say. I never saw the boy again.

And hence the entire scope of my sodomitic knowledge. I now wonder how much I may have missed. If such deviances could befall even Sherlock Holmes, than certainly no man could consider himself immune.

Perhaps not even myself.

Wilde

I know that the name 'Oscar Wilde' was once renown for its ability to create witticisms. But all the pretty words in the world could not disguise the ugly scars that marred his fall.

Sebastian Melmoth is more a plain speaker. By being a bore, he can easily distract his new acquaintances from anything in his past by putting them to sleep. So, like Sherlock, he allows himself no flights of fancy and sticks to plain fact. Even those that pertain to one's colleagues' ejaculations.

He probably should have known to hold his tongue. Oscar Wilde would not have; he was used to holding other intimate parts of the anatomy. But Monsieur Melmoth really should have known better.

I thought so as the good doctor pulled his steadfast Army revolver and held it aimed at my chest.

Watson

I know now why Holmes went out of his way to assist Lady Eva Blackwell in our adventure against the odious Charles Augustus Milverton.

He burgled the man's flat.

He allowed himself to become engaged to be married. To a housemaid!

And he was quite willing to commit a murder had not another of Milverton's unhappy victims beaten him to it.

I felt the cool, steady Enfield in my hand as I pointed it at Melmoth. I enjoyed the familiarity of its feel—it had been a part of my hand since '80. Seventeen years. And even if I didn't appreciate having to use it, it was a powerful feeling.

But I couldn't know if I would be willing to do for my dearest friend what he would have done for a stranger.

Wilde

"Give me the photograph. And anything else you may have."

I wonder if I felt shock. Or panic. I don't think I did. I have never had a gun leveled at my person (save the British judicial system) but my heart skipped perhaps only one beat. I leaned forward until my chair legs squealed under my weight. "Now…doctor, you must think clearly about what you are doing."

"Must I?" He (and his weapon) stepped closer. "You deserve no consideration in my book."

I let out a long breath. The truth, I suppose, would out after all. "I have no letter. No photograph. Nothing. Oh, I have told you what has happened in every respect. But I cannot prove but what I have said."

Those delicious eyes blinked several times. The corners of his moustache turned downward.

"I am not a blackmailer." (Would I live in such squalor if I were?) "Rather I am one who owes your friend a debt. A debt I wish I could pay by allowing him some small happiness. I have lured you here, doctor, to tell you—whether you will believe me or not—that your friend is quite in love with you."

The armed appendage was quite noticeably shaking. But I knew him not well enough to say whether from anger or shock. His next words would be absolutely crucial.

How unfortunate that I never got to hear them.

Watson

Holmes would later ask me if I would have really pulled the trigger. I don't think he expected an answer and I didn't offer one. I am uncertain I had one.

No, that's a lie. I did have an answer.

The door banged open so suddenly Melmoth and I both jumped. He was unquestionably lucky my gun hand remained steady as ever. For I dare say we were both shocked to the core to see Holmes standing there with flushed face, panting as hard as if Satan himself had chased him here from London.

"Wilde," he gasped. "Don't do this…I told you…I forbade you…"

I really feared for a moment he would succumb to cardiac arrest. I have never seen him gasp so for breath. He glanced at me but the look suggested nothing. It was as though he barely registered my presence. His attention was squarely focused at the man seated opposite me.

"Too late, I fear, Sherlock."

Holmes's jaw clamped down hard.

"I have already told him."

Those gray eyes, the ones I would be forced use such adjectives as 'intense' and 'nearly inhuman' to describe fell upon my person with a clear look of horror. It was a desperate look. One that even in my immense confusion and anger, I had to nearly force myself not to assist him with. There was clearly a pleading quality to his fear that called to me. I, who have always offered my humble service to him wherever and whenever he required it, could hardly refuse even now to go to him.

But an instant later the fear was gone and he let out a low moan. His long fingers pressed to his temple for a moment before walking right between my weapon and my target to seize Melmoth's quart bottle of rot gut and pour himself a generous portion.

The room (its occupants included) was still as midnight as he downed this bit of courage. The hand did not shake. For some reason, this constituted a sense of pride in me. Even now I am still awed and proud of knowing such a great man.

But he still had not said one word to me.

"Why, Wilde?" Holmes seemed to be speaking more to his whisky glass. "Why would you do this?"

"Why am I holding an act of contrition from my wayward child?"

Holmes slammed the glass down. "I was trying to help you, damnit!"

"As am I, dear boy. As am I."

He gave a short laugh. "So ruining me is your idea of help."

Rather than answer, Melmoth (or whoever he was) strolled over to me, leisurely put his hand on my weapon and snatched it away. I was too disturbed to make any protest. So apparently was Holmes because he simply stood and gawked as he gently placed it on the side table next to what looked like a cigarette case.

"Gentlemen," said he, his back facing us. "My apologies for forcing one another on you in this manner. Sherlock, I assure you that you are not lost. I rather hope you may at last have been found. But I suppose that depends on whether our doctor is willing to at last look for you."

Wilde

Did I know Sherlock would appear like that? God no! How could I? How could anyone?

"You left the bloody letter lying on the table, Watson," Sherlock was mumbling. "Be thankful Mrs. Hudson has couth enough not to pry in her tenants' mail."

I don't think he even heard.

"Not that it would matter. She knows my line of work breeds parasitic blackmailers like a Petri dish of bacteria. As I would have hoped youknew."

The doctor condescends to look at him.

And Sherlock babbles on:

(An affliction I thought him incapable of)

"You really should know better. Running off like an impetuous child to defend my honour! Why on Earth did you not simply come to me?"

The doctor speaks:

"Holmes."

"A blackmailer will say anything for his ends to justify his means, you know, Watson."

The doctor's arm flies forward suddenly and I fear he is going to strike him. But he does not. He places it on his friend's arm as naturally as a husband kissing his wife good-night or a soldier taking a bullet for his country.

"Holmes," he says. "Stop."

Sherlock stops.

1 Champagne

2 Popular 19th century tie.

3 Probably the most famous and oldest Conservative club in London