Epilogue: Fakes and Friends
For the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his.
Observations on Sherlock Holmes by his friend, John Watson, MD
—A Scandal in Bohemia by Arthur Conan Doyle.
88**88
The hammered man had been on the prowl since entering The Guard House pub. He roamed the crowded establishment, staggering from table to table in search of unattended pints. Most of the patrons, engaged in conversations, held their drinks close, and paid him no mind; except for Sherlock Holmes who, sitting at the table across from off-duty DCI Greg Lestrade and John Watson, had noticed him immediately. As the vagrant seemed harmless, Sherlock observed his unsuccessful attempts with curious detachment and said nothing to his friends.
At the onset of their evening, John and Greg had drifted from topic to topic, commiserating over politics, sports, entertainment—dull, dull, dull. Sherlock had fidgeted in silent frustration at the tedium. He intended "to behave" as John had requested, but the inanity of social discourse was mind-numbing. The evening marginally improved with DCI's updates about past cases.
"Oh, here's an outcome... A bit mystifying, Sherlock, if you ask me," Greg addressed the restive detective. "Art forger Victor Mueller has gone legitimate, painting his own masterworks, and making restitution to his victims. And after you cleared Stamford's name, he sought out the printer to apologize for the way he and his wife had treated him."
Sherlock held off responding. All banter that circumvented Lestrade's purpose for texting him to meet at the pub was undeserving of his reply.
John threw Sherlock the fourth puzzled look of the evening before filling the conversational gap. "Maybe, not so surprising, Greg. Six years, was it? Gave him time to reflect on his actions, I guess?"
"Unexpected is…" Greg confided in a hoarse whisper, "…they've been seen together ever since, hanging at the local pubs, attending museums and galleries, cheering at the Championships, like best mates. Who'd think? I guess it helps Fiona Crofton is out of the way."
John shrugged. "Mates are mates, sometimes there's no explaining it—"
The remark instantly triggered Sherlock's recollection of something Henry Knight had once said. "Well, mates are mates, aren't they? I mean, look at you and John." But Henry had been unaware of the truth about his father's friendship with Dr. Franklin until Sherlock had solved his case. Not so irrelevant was that those two "best mates" had held polarizing ideologies about the genetics experiments conducted at Baskerville Military Research facility, resulting in Dr. Frankland killing Henry's father to silence him, thereby traumatizing the little boy who had witnessed the murder. Frankland had faked his friendship, in part, to cover a horrible truth.
"Not all best mates kill each other," Sherlock spoke his thoughts aloud, his first utterance in nearly forty minutes.
John and Greg exchanged scowls.
"Unexpected that," John countered, "Friends killing each other?"
"Sherlock's not wrong," Greg defended the detective. "Parliament's research statistics found that male victims of homicide have most commonly been killed by a friend or acquaintance."
"—Enough! Cut to the chase, Lestrade!" Sherlock snapped, his patience vaporized by the idiotic chit-chat of Lestrade's stalling tactics. "This invitation to 'hang with mates' means the police are out of their depth and you need—unofficially—to consult the Met's 'last resort.' Explain why I'm here!"
"Ah, fine. You got me," Greg admitted, "I might have a case or two…. Hell, after this bloody week, all of 'em would benefit from picking your brain, Sherlock."
"So, this isn't merely a 'wind down at the pub?'" John teased, "A consultation, then?"
The DCI looked down at his pint, fumbling for a reply, just as the meandering drunk Sherlock had been following with his eyes found success at the next table. He snatched a pint left vulnerable by a woman searching in her purse for her ringing mobile. As he scuttled off, his stolen beer sloshed onto the floor causing him to slip in the puddle of his own making. Off balance and falling forward, he grabbed the closet object for support—John Watson—and they tumbled down together, a jumble of flailing limbs, trying to right themselves as smashed glasses scudded across the hardwood floor. Startled onlookers snicked or gasped and returned to their drinks.
Greg's reflexes were slowed by drink, but Sherlock sprang into action. He pulled the man off his friend and pinned his arms back. The detainee slumped against his captor to stay upright, too pissed to struggle.
"Are you all right, John?" Sherlock asked. The mishap seemed accidental, but Sherlock's suspicious mind was on high alert.
"Unhurt…," John pulled to his knees and rubbed his bruised elbow, double-checking his palms to ensure they were shard free, "…except for my pride."
Titters and murmurs of amused patrons stirred the room.
"Oi, John!" Greg helped John to his feet and thumped him on the back. A round of applause erupted from the nearby tables prompted John to acknowledge them with a nod of his head and a coy wave.
With "high alert" downgraded to his satisfaction, Sherlock relaxed his white-knuckle grip, doing his best to steady the pisshead from listing back to the floor.
John caught his vigilant friend's scrutiny as he dusted himself off. "Seriously. Not a scratch," he chuckled softly. "My pint's the only casualty. Was nearly done, anyway."
"Sit him down, Sherlock," Greg pulled out a chair. "I'll be right back."
While Lestrade fetched the pub manager—presumably to evoke the Licensing Act 2003 about serving alcohol to someone already drunk—John turned his clinical eye on the malnourished man who reeked of body odor and drink. There were no tracks on his forearms, but symptoms of alcohol abuse were advanced. If the man, whom John approximated to be late forties, were his patient, he'd caution him about his health status and make recommendations to get him support. But in the pub, John downplayed his medical advice. Experience had taught him it would be unwelcome as it was unsolicited. "Listen, mate," he said kindly, "No damage done. But like me, it's time to call it quits this evening. Do you have a ride home. What do you say?"
Bleary eyes blinked and darted between John and Sherlock. A frown formed between the man's brows; he yanked his shoulder free of the detective's firm grip. "Sod off!" he mumbled with a suspicious glare at Sherlock. "Keep your… pansy hands off of me. Not queer… like your g…g… girlfriend, this un here." He jutted his stubbled jaw in John's direction, then raised his palms in surrender. "Swear I dint touch him…like that…cuz… not gay! Not t'all! As straight as an arrow—"
His homophobic rant was interrupted, not by an I'm-not-gay protest from an indignant John, but by the irritated pub manager.
"—Bloody hell, Tim, outta here!" With an arm under Tim's shoulder, the publican, crinkled his nose with repugnance, lifted him from the chair and frog-marched him toward the exit. "Stealing unattended drinks is bad for business. It'll land you in jail. Not gonna be nice about it next time, y'hear?"
The drunken Tim barely made it past the threshold where he retched and heaved a night's worth of drink onto the pavement. A pub employee familiar with the routine, readily hosed down the spot, just as an incident-response vehicle pulled to the kerb. Lestrade spoke to the driver.
"'But for the grace of God …,'" John muttered for Sherlock's ears only. His eyes followed the manager and DCI's progress assisting the fellow into the van. The invalided army doctor understood all too well; he had been lost until he found a friend, and then family.
Sherlock shot John a curious glance, not because of his empathy for this Tim—John's humanity no longer surprised him. His surprise stemmed from John yet again taking no umbrage—as he used to do—with being mistaken as homosexual.
What people presumed hardly mattered to Sherlock—sex with any gender held no attraction for him. It was freeing to live his life, unconcerned by labels with regards to relationships, even the most important ones, but John had always bristled with irritation at such misperceptions. While his open-minded friend was not homophobic, John Watson just clearly preferred women, and being a truthful man, felt compelled to correct an untruth.
Empathy eclipsed indignation tonight, so it seems, Sherlock mused, approving the improvement in John's self-confidence that more resembled his own unassailable self-image.
"Tim's being bussed to one of our alcohol recovery centres," the DCI explained when he returned.
"Thanks, Greg. Well done. Hope some good will come of it." John shook the DCI's hand in leave-taking. "Gotta go! A school night for Rosie and the sitter. Have to be home by nine...Had a smashing evening, though," he punned. Waving goodbye, he turned on his heel and headed toward the exit.
"Hey, Sherlock," Lestrade detained the detective briefly. "You'll come round to the station tomorrow, then?"
"Officially?"
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
The consulting detective agreed with a nod of his head and followed John out.
88**88
They walked in silence until entering John's street.
"So, you've got past it, then?" Sherlock began where his train of thoughts had led him.
John, startled by the sudden question, looked at his friend. "Past what, Sherlock?"
Sherlock stared into the middle distance as if to gather his answer while John patted down his pockets in search of his keys.
"Keys—bottom-right coat pocket, John. Where you dropped them earlier," Sherlock directed his forgetful friend before responding to John's question. "I'm referring to the tonight. Tim's assumption that we're lovers. In the past, when our…association… had been… misinterpreted, you had been quick to rebut the mistruth."
"Oh, that?" John, having found his keys, eyed his friend. "What's to question?"
"Your reaction. Were you not…offended tonight, then?"
"It wasn't worth correcting a sorry bloke, struggling through life. Let him believe what he wants." John scratched his head and nodded before adding, "So? I let it slide, Sherlock. That's what you've always done. Leave it well enough alone, right?"
"My usual tact, and lately it has become yours… You have been 'letting it slide" for some time, I might add."
"Well, yeah, true," John deflected and dawdled on the pavement before his front door, "So… why are we talking about it now…?"
"Thought it apropos, as it came up again tonight. I'm curious what has changed."
"Hmmmm," John hesitated, put his key in the lock, and twisted it. The lock bolt retracted noisily. When John pushed open the door, he suggested, "Let's do this later, over a brandy. Come through, then?"
As the two men stepped into the foyer, Rosie raced to greet them."—Daddy!" She hugged John and gave her godfather a nod of acknowledgement only, for she well knew he disliked sentimental gestures. "You're back!"
"All good, Dr. Watson," the teenaged Lily reported with a smile and grabbed her jacket. "Had a fun evening, although Rosie beat me at every game." She turned to the girl and waved. "See you, Rosie." Moments later, Lily left, well compensated and with an escort home. When John returned, his daughter was sharing her Cluedo strategies with her uncle.
"And that's how I guessed: Miss Scarlet, the candlestick, in the library for the win against Lily!" she giggled and high-fived her godfather.
"Logical deduction, clever technique!" Sherlock praised her while sitting cross-legged on the floor, still wrapped in his greatcoat. It was not the first time John had seen his frequently intimidating friend neutralized a height-and-power-differential to achieve parity with his daughter.
"Excited, are we?" John observed, before taking over. "Time to relax before bed, Rosie. Go change into your PJs; I'll be up in a bit to read the next chapter with you."
"Okay!" Rosie sprinted halfway up the stairs before turning around. "Uncle Sherlock, could you read some bits, too?"
Sherlock stood and glanced to John for acquiescence as Rosie pressed her case, "There's Thorin, King of the Dwarves or better, Gandalf? He's a wizard, too. "Oh wait," she paused. "Gandalf disappeared … not sure he's in this chapter."
"Right you are, Rosie, no Gandalf," John replied. "But Bilbo meets the dragon's face to face, um, kinda, in this one."
Sherlock's eyes twinkled at this; a mischievous smile appeared. With his greatcoat now tossed over an armchair, Sherlock transformed himself by crouching low, arms curled like sinewy wings as he crept toward the stairs. "A dwarf king? A wizard? No, NO, little thief!" roared his perfect dragon voice. "I am a DRAGON, the greatest of CALAMITIES!"
"There you go, mate." John laughed. So much for relaxing before his daughter's bedtime. "Smaug it is!"
88**88
After his animated reading for a receptive audience, Sherlock closed the book on the dragon chapter, set it aside, and descended to the sitting room to give father and daughter privacy for their nighttime ritual of kisses, hugs, and encouraging words.
Ordinarily he'd have let himself out. But tonight, he poured himself and John snifters of brandy and with drink in hand he waited in the armchair until John arrived several minutes later.
"Thanks." John accepted the glass Sherlock offered him and took to the sofa to stretch out. In the room's subdued evening lighting they sat and sipped, in no rush to disturb the stillness.
"John," Sherlock said at last, purposely focusing on the amber liquid in his glass. "We hadn't quite finished our previous discussion…"
"Oh. Yes, right. Finish our discussion?" John agreed with a hint of mischief in his voice. "Well, about flying dragons… what more can be said? I think Rosie's satisfied."
"No!" Sherlock's eyes narrowed but he responded with a half-smile at the amused glint in John's eyes. "Deflective humor aside, John…."
"Yeah, I know," John yawned and stretched his arms. He took another sip and leant forward, elbows on knees. "What's changed? Nothing. In my book, typically it's offensive to assume anything about anyone, to stereotype people, so rudeness aside, my reaction varies."
"Undoubtedly, your long association with me—a complex and moody character—still invites some speculation. Not quite as much as before… But, back then," Sherlock grinned in amused recollection, "your strenuous denials made you appear … suspiciously… defensive..."
"Yeah, defensive, well, but…" John glanced at the ceiling, seeking clarification. "That speculation unsettled me… Of course, I denied it. Women wouldn't have anything to do with me. Everybody assuming 'bachelors' living together meant we were gay. Never happened before to me…and I shared bloody barracks in the army, for God's sake!"
"The modern world, John, in its zeal to define every relationship possible between people, has devolved to employing only the scale of erotic intensity and has mostly ignored or suppressed an understanding of other forms of love."
"Dunno." John's brows furrowed thoughtfully. "Seriously, no matter what I said about nonsexual affection between comrades in arms, parents, siblings, work colleagues, best friends, even pets, no one listened."
"Maybe most didn't, but I listened," Sherlock admitted. "You see, John, my deepening curiosity about sentiment—what I once perceived as weakness—led me to reacquaint myself with Greek philosophy about the many forms of love."
"Greek philosophers? This I've got to hear."
Though his words were bordering jocular, John's clinically impassive face encouraged Sherlock to proceed. "In addition to the more familiar treatises on eros, or sexual love, characterized by dilated pupils and the quickening pulse, there are richer and more germane aspects—philia, storge, pragma, agápe, philautia, mania, and ludus."
"Right. I'd be joking if I said it's all Greek to me," John air quoted, "because, yes, Sherlock, I am aware of the different definitions…. " The frankness of their verbal foray into previously unspoken territory pleased John. Too often he had been on the receiving end of withering disparagement and had stopped asking Sherlock for his perspectives on love. He rubbed his stubbled cheek and muttered as an aside. "Didn't think to reference those damn Greek philosophers. On balance, I don't think it would have helped…"
"Agreed. Modern perception about male friendships being what it is…denies the value of platonic relationships. Even you, John, for years, with your intrusive curiosity about my unspecified preferences, asserted I was unfulfilled as a human being without a woman. You also discounted the possibility."
John snorted a self-deprecatory laugh. "Yeah, not anymore." He rolled his eyes in apology. "Sorry. I was a bloody idiot trying to convince you—an asexual man devoted to pure logic and science, who, I might add, is more than a bit complex and frankly very moody, though someone I admire—to find completion in a romantic partner. I was off my nut with grief back then."
"Understood," resonated Sherlock's deep voice.
"Understood," John repeated with an impish smile. "Still, why is it so hard to believe that two men, once flat-mates or working as partners, might just be best mates who care, like brothers, about each other?"
"Some mysteries are unsolvable," Sherlock conceded wryly as he swirled the brandy and contemplated the spirit's 'legs'—the tendrils of brandy that ran down the sides of the glass, indicating its alcohol content.
Then he closed his eyes to contemplate another mystery—his deep and abiding sentiments for the one person who mattered most. Their mutual affection, unspoken but not unknown—that drew curiosity and misinterpretation—had not weakened his balanced intellect; rather their friendship fortified it. For John Watson had given him experiences of an unexpected nature: alternate viewpoints, an understanding of the world from someone who had seen far more of it than Sherlock had done, as well as something the detective had long since abandoned: trust. John was the closest Sherlock Holmes would come to finding connection in another human being. John was the brother he wished he had had, the soldier who had his back, the confidante who offered wisdom, the speaker of truths Sherlock so often did not want to hear, the daring adventurer from childhood, the wit who made him laugh, and the "only one" for whom Sherlock felt an irrefutable bond.
"So, to be clear, John…"
Fatigued, John had also closed his eyes, mellowed by the distilled spirits and lulled by the silence that had settled momentarily in the room, but he snapped alert when Sherlock suddenly picked up their conversation.
"… whilst I still eschew risky enticements of romance and sexual obsession that threaten rationality, I no longer abhor all sentiments."
John's mouth formed an "O," but he uttered no sound; Sherlock went on uninterrupted, "My understanding… and appreciation of the strong affinity, defined as philia, is due to the kind of friendship and support you have provided me and which I return in kind."
"Cheers!" John breathed. The truth in Sherlock's disclosure was no surprise to him. Sherlock had consistently shown—without words—proof of reciprocal affection, through their companionship, their sense of belonging, and their united purpose. But hearing Sherlock say it moved him. To hide his trembly lips, he drained his glass.
The sudden need for a refill launched John off the sofa. "More?" he asked, holding up the brandy decanter.
Sherlock nodded yes and steered the conversation back on course. "So, we agree about public perception …?"
"That it hasn't changed how the world sees us." John topped off his friend's glass. "If that hasn't been bad enough, your silence, Sherlock, is provocative, to be honest. It adds fuel to the fire!" He caught Sherlock's eye. "Don't deny you enjoy pissing with everyone's perceptions."
Sherlock held his friend's scrutiny and chuckled softly, "There is an element of amusement in it…"
"Seriously. I knew it!" John grinned with mock aggravation. "Sometimes, I could use some help, Sher-lock!" he huffed and stomped in frustration back to the sofa.
"A futile effort against a sea change beyond our control. What unimportant people think is not worth the breath we use to persuade them."
John dropped wearily onto the cushions and grumbled, "What people think is not completely irrelevant, Sherlock. Society is driven by perceptions. As social creatures, our interactions with others shape our identities to some extent. Mistruths can be damaging..."
"But when perceptions are wrong, it's important to hold fast to our own truths. So, whilst the mystique of romance and sexual attraction might be the basis of many long-lasting commitments, the truth is—"
"— the truth is our friendship endures on a different plane," John finished for him, nodding his head in agreement. "Yeah. You and I know the truth. Guess that's what matters most."
"And the changes in you I've observed?"
"All right, yeah, I've been able to ignore... mostly... presumptions about… our…my sexual identity. You taught me that...to be more confident in being who I am. Don't get me wrong, though, it bothers me—I'm still a typical heterosexual who seeks completion in a female romantic partner—if anyone's asking."
"People always do," Sherlock quipped.
Smiling, John lifted his glass in a toast and waited for Sherlock to do the same. "People say life is most fulfilling with 'good friends and great adventures… and we certainly have that! To our extraordinary friendship—" he pantomimed in midair their glasses clinking before he sipped.
Both men savored the satisfying flavor of the brandy and each other's quiet company for a while longer until the soft breaths of sleep betrayed John. Sherlock rose and, donning his greatcoat, shut the front door softly with the parting words, "G'night, John."
The End
88**88
Author's Note:
The BBC Sherlock creators/writers were heavy handed in queerbaiting throughout their series, while protesting it was meant to be tongue in cheek. In a website article by groovymutant, entitled Romantic Tropes and Queerbaiting in BBC's Sherlock (June 2019) the author analyzes the subtext of copious scenes and provides solid arguments for why the viewers interpreted the characters as gay, adding that co-creator Mark Gatiss admitted that he found "flirting with homoeroticism in Sherlock interesting."
In another insightful website article The Case of John Watson's Sexuality (January 2014) by inkstained: musings of a bibliophile, the author posits that "the [BBC] series may actually be a long-form exploration of John Watson's sexual awakening."
What should we believe? Whether or not they anticipated how popular Johnlock would be, the co-creators subsequently tried to set the record straight (literally) in many subsequent media interviews, essentially to close the barn door after the horses escaped.
For example, in a Vulture article entitled "Sherlock Holmes Is Not Gay, Not Straight, Says Steven Moffat," dated: 31 March 2015, Moffat insists "Sherlock Holmes is not gay, straight, or interested in sex…He's been saying he doesn't do that at all for over 100 years…He's willfully staying away from sex to keep his brain pure—a Victorian belief…Doctor Watson is very clear that he prefers women."
So, the focus of this epilogue has NOT been to undermine the wealth and depth of well-written Johnlock fanfictions who have chosen to accept the obvious tropes and deliberate flirtations with homoeroticism as truth. (I have read many persuasive stories in this universe that are as enjoyable as they are intriguing. I also understand why it is so popular—the characters and the actors who portray them are hot!)
However, this epilogue offers a perhaps unique alternative in fanfiction by depicting the BBC characters sexual orientation as Moffat and Gatiss "claimed" they intended all along in the Sherlock series (John is neither gay nor bi, Sherlock is asexual) and grants the similar premise from the original ACD Canon perspective: that two remarkable men sharing exciting adventures will develop a deep and abiding bond like brothers.
The Greek philosophers called this love "philia," the bonds of mutual loyalty and trust between warrior-brothers, a willingness to die for one another. Interestingly, the Greeks considered philia a love superior to eros, the love in romance.