Under The Moonlight
It was an instant, and then all went grey. I couldn’t hear anything. I couldn’t see anything other than the reflection of the knife against the moonlight beam that entered through the window. Dark spots clouded my vision. I could only stare as Holmes fell on the floor, blood trickling off his chest, his face white as a ghost.
I suppose it was my deep love for Holmes what prompted my brain to get out of its reverie despite that sight. I moved towards Moran, who was preparing to deal the finishing blow, like a cornered animal pulling its claws out in a final attempt at defending itself. He had eyes only for Holmes, and didn’t hear my approach until it was too late. I hit him on the head with the butt of my revolver, and he was out cold a moment later.
It was with shaky hands that I set about unbuttoning my friend’s waistcoat and shirt to be able to have a clear view of the wound. Holmes said nothing, and I inwardly begged him to stay awake and conscious for as long as possible. I believe he deduced that from the frantic way my eyes went from his face to his wound, for his hand covered mine for an instant, and a moment later I felt his burning gaze on top of my head, insistent as only his could be, even in moments like these. My hands were firmly steady afterwards; my training in the army and my countless days in the hospital wards pulling all tremble out of my touch.
And yet, there wasn’t much I could do without proper equipment. The wound itself hadn’t hit anything vital, but it was deep and it was bleeding profusely. I hastily took off my coat and pressed it against the wound, in a vain attempt to stop the flow before Holmes bled out in my arms.
“Watson. You need to blow the whistle,” said Holmes, his voice a dry whisper. So occupied had I been with his injury, that I had failed to notice the silver whistle that hung around his neck. Pain barely graced his features, only the tightness of his lips giving him away, and I felt my heart suffer in sympathy at the thought of what he had to be enduring, if that was all I was allowed to see.
No sooner had I done as he had told me, than Inspector Lestrade stood behind me, two other constables following at his heels. “Good heavens! Mr Holmes! Doctor Watson!”
“Have someone fetch my medical bag from my house at Kensington, now! He cannot be moved.” My voice had become that of the army surgeon I had once been, and Lestrade followed my own barked orders with his own.
The constables left, and for a few moments all that we could hear was the comings and goings of carriages in the street and the shallow breath of Holmes, who was laying as still and pale as his own wax bust, and Moran, who remained unconscious. I believe that was that last sight what prompted our dear Inspector Lestrade to talk again. “What shall we do about Moran, Doctor?”, said he.
“Arrest him on the charge of attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes,” I answered. Holmes placed his hand upon both of mine, which were still pressing his wound. He had said nothing, but his eyes were enough to communicate to me what was on his mind, even without his own powers of deduction. “No, do not mention Holmes,” I corrected. “He murdered Ronald Adair. It is for him that Moran shall swing. Once he’s recovered, Holmes will give you the full details, but you should better handcuff him before he comes to his senses.
Lestrade set to work, handcuffing an still unconscious Moran, and then all of us together waited for the constables to arrive. To this day, I cannot say with certainty how long we waited for. I could only think of Holmes’ blood slowly coating each of our hands. Every minute that passed I grew more anxious, unable to stop thinking about my fallen comrades in the war. As if Holmes could have been just a comrade! I couldn’t stand the thought of him dying while I stood beside him, powerless to save him. I couldn’t tear my eyes off him. I kept looking at his eyes, not caring anymore what he might see in them. I needed to make sure he was still with me. I could not lose him, not after he had only just returned to me once more.
Holmes offered me a faint smile. “All will be well, my dear boy,” he whispered, so low that only I heard him. A few seconds later rushed steps echoed in the room. The constables had returned.
I believe I never stitched up anyone with as much happiness and relief as I did Holmes that night. He was very weak, but with the help of Lestrade and the other two constables, we managed to get him on the other side of the street, and onto our old rooms in Baker Street.
For a bit more than two weeks, Holmes lay in bed. Mrs Hudson, bless her, brought a steady supply of tea and food that I gave Holmes at various intervals. Although as time went by and Holmes’ condition improved, he grew restless and bitter. More than once I had to physically hold him back onto his bed, and the fact alone that I managed to do it served as an argument of his weakness. Whenever that happened—and it became a common occurrence—he would grow furious, and throw bitter remarks at me with as much venom as he could master, in an attempt to make me leave his side.
It rarely worked, for I knew what he was going through. I knew that he needed constant work and activity to remain a civilised man, and I was aware that the morphia didn’t do much to alleviate his pain anymore and he was suffering greatly — but one morning he said something that cost me every bit of strength I could master not to punch him square in the face. He cried: “If I had known I would end up prostrated in here like a goddamn invalid, without any activities or morphine to distract me from this nightmare, I would have asked you to let me die right there across the street!”
I stood there, my hand frozen mid-air, still holding a steaming cup of tea. For several seconds, I said nothing. My mind was blank, and I could do no other thing but set the cup down on his night stand, as in a trance. “What did you say?” I could barely recognise my own voice. I had only to make a little effort to smell Holmes’ blood on my hands. I could feel it still. I could feel it sticking under my nails and upon each of my fingers even though I had scrubbed it off vigorously that very night.
Anger overtook me, anger such as I had never known. I stared at Holmes’ smirking face and my hands trembled so fervently that I had to turn them into fists at my sides to be able to control them. “How dare you?!” I yelled, all the effort it took me to control my hands taking away my ability to tone down my voice. “How dare you say such a thing?! After everything you put me through, not only for two demonic weeks but those three eternal years! How dare you wish you had put me through that again!”
Holmes' smirk disappeared. His eyes fell upon his own hands, and his face turned crimson. I felt my own eyes fill with tears. "You see Holmes, but you do not observe." I said, and my voice broke when I said his name, so overwhelmed I was with anguish, bitterness and fury. "You see me here with you, always happy to stand beside you, but you don't seem to understand what you put me through. You took me away from Mary, and in the end, you abandoned me, to do what? Play vigilante around the globe, isn’t it?! Have you got any idea what it felt like, knowing I could have saved you, knowing I could have been at your side to prevent your death, only to find out through your own pen that you had known about Moriarty’s deception all along, and yet you had chosen to push me away? Was I not good enough to die beside you, Holmes?”
At that last sentence, Holmes let out a strangled sound, but otherwise said nothing. So I carried on, unable to stop now that the dam holding three years worth of pain had been torn apart by the man to blame for its existence in the first place. “If it had not been for the love I felt for Mary…” A bitter chuckle left my lips. “I would have followed you right down that blasted waterfall.”
“She was really distraught by your death too, you know? You also had been her friend and she cared about you deeply. She had shared my pain, but she had been stronger than me. Even after she got ill, I was the one who had to rely on her to avoid the recurring darkness of my thoughts. I still took care of her when her condition worsened, as a proper physician and loving husband would, of course, but I could never hide the deep pain that I felt every day, because I had failed to save you, and soon I would fail to save her. And I did. In the end she died, and I was truly and undeniably alone.”
“I thought about ending my life more times than you can imagine. More than once I'd grasp my revolver with the tenderness I had reserved for Mary,” (Or you, I added inwardly) “and consider joining both of you for good. But I had promised Mary I would go on, for her sake and yours. Since you came back, every day I've been grateful for making that promise. Until today."
For the first time in my life, it seemed I had rendered Sherlock Holmes speechless. If it hadn't been under such grim circumstances, I would have been overjoyed, but I was not. His eyes remained fixed on his hands, and I felt my heart take a pained leap when I noticed that they were shaking. I stared at his figure for a long moment, a part of me still having a hard time getting used to the sight of him in the flesh. Nonetheless, I had nothing else to say, not without risking our relationship further; I could do no other thing but leave the room, a tight knot stuck in my throat.
During the following days, I remained at his side as if nothing had changed, though no word passed between us. I would come into his room every morning, check on his wound, change his dressings, and then sit next to him to make sure he finished his breakfast. Afterwards I would leave, feeling my chest tighten with the effort I made to keep silent, for I wasn’t sure what words would leave my mouth this time, since there was much that remained unsaid between us. This tortuous cycle would repeat with each meal.
Despite the deep pain we felt, I trusted both of us to be able to keep this situation between ourselves, and believed Mrs Hudson to be completely oblivious of it, certain that the good woman had enough on her plate to be aware of what had happened. But I was proved wrong merely four days after the incident.
When I went into his room on that day, carrying his lunch on a tray, Holmes seemed to be almost fully recovered. His skin no longer looked sickly pale, and he was sitting on the bed, rather than laying completely flat on it. His eyes avoided mine insistently, and he refused to acknowledge my presence within the room at all, even while I was checking on his wound. It had almost completely healed. It wasn’t long before I found myself sitting in my usual chair, watching him eat.
It was then that I noticed that he was eating at a very unusual slow pace. Deliberately, for not other reason than to keep me in the room. At the realisation, I simply rose an unimpressed eyebrow in his direction, and suddenly his face was red with embarrassment. I had caught him in the act! I was still angry with him, but I couldn’t hide the slight smile that curved my lips at the sight. He held my gaze, and with growing hope I wondered whether this moment would signal the end of our mutual silent agreement, until Holmes wordlessly looked away; I rose from my chair and left.
I was well aware of the fact that we were both being very childish, but I felt more than entitled to my silence, considering that Holmes had been entitled to his for three long years.
When I went back to the living room, to my great surprise, I found Mrs Hudson sitting in one of our dining chairs. She seemed to have been waiting there for a while. She offered me a kind smile when she saw me and made a motion with her hand, inviting me to sit beside her in another chair. "My dear Doctor, you've had that dreadful look on your face for too long for this to be due one of your usual quarrels. Whatever happened between you two?"
I blinked at her, making a poor attempt at hiding the surprise that dawned on my features, although I quickly managed to offer her my most reassuring smile. My voice sounded sickenly sweet when I replied: "I appreciate your concern, Mrs Hudson, but there is nothing wrong. Holmes is merely going through some painful days, and taking care of a patient so thoroughly is often draining for the physician as well. However, it's nothing that a good amount of rest cannot fix."
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes still full of apprehension. She seemed to be debating something with herself, until finally, one of her dry and calloused hands settled upon mine, that was resting on the table. "I know it's not my place to pry, Doctor,” she said, gently. “But I've seen that look in your eyes before... when your poor Mary passed away."
I couldn't help it, I flinched. "This is not like that," I replied, my voice strained. Mary's face flashed before my eyes and I did my best to remain calm. It would not do if I started yelling at a lady like a madman.
Mrs Hudson squeezed my hand, her eyes had become slightly dimmed, but her gaze was determined. “I love both of you as if you were my sons, and I have seen you both suffer enough over the years without saying a word. But I cannot do that anymore. I know that you are hurt because of his deception, doctor, but you don’t know the state he was in after you got married.” Her gaze darkened. “He did not eat, he did not sleep. All he did was go case after case, as if he were afraid of standing in an empty room with only himself for company, even for a second. And when there were no cases…” Her voice trailed off, and I didn’t need her to finish her sentence to know what she was avoiding to say. I could see the morocco case in my mind as clearly as if I had been staring at it with my own eyes. Mrs Hudson continued: “Haven’t you considered… that there was a reason why he embarked in such a dangerous journey in the first place?”
“I…” Words seemed to be caught on my tongue. I could feel my heartbeat racing as I came to several realisations at once, but my brain refused to do anything else other than fill me with dread.
“I have always trusted your judgement, Doctor, and I have no doubt you and him will do what you know is right in the end. I only ask that you don’t waste the time you have together, for it is a precious and fickle thing, and when we are engrossed in unimportant matters, it tends to run out very quickly."
That night, I went to bed with Mrs Hudson's words still echoing inside my mind. She was undoubtedly right on all accounts, but I could not find it within myself to take the first step towards our reconciliation.
Surely, marrying the woman you loved could not be compared to faking your own death for three years, while making absolutely no attempt to communicate the news of your survival to your only and most intimate friend?
Thinking about those terrible years inevitably led me to think about the day when I finally returned from Switzerland, alone. I could remember little of the train ride back to London, mostly loose fragments of words and images, not unlike those Holmes was so fond of pasting inside his scrape book. I had not shed a tear in front of anyone but myself, and yet it seemed that people could still see the grief that pierced through my heart plain in my eyes, as if I had been weeping in front of them. The word of Holmes’ death had travelled fast and caught up with me on the train, though I could not say that I had expected any less. Holmes had always been several steps ahead of me, after all.
I could not remember the faces or voices that came to me from all parts of the train to offer me their condolences. What I did remember was the terrible feeling that came upon me every time I was forced to respond to them with an understanding smile, while their eyes filled with tears of rage and pain, and I sat there quietly, taking it all in. It was a talent I had gained during my first days as a doctor and perfectioned during the worst of them. It meant pulling a mask over my face that hid the truth behind my eyes for a moment, and allowed the wronged party to be completely selfish. A mask that allowed them to claim that all the grief to be felt about the current situation was solely theirs. Over and over, I consoled men, women and children who were mourning the hero of my stories, while inwardly I mourned the man of flesh and blood that I had considered to be my dearest and most important friend. In that train, surrounded by dozens of people who were all grieving the same man that I was, I felt the loneliest I had ever been.
Mary had been waiting for me at the station, clutching in her right hand the telegram that I had sent her the day before. She was the first face I was able to properly look at without needing to hide my pain. She had already been ill back then, but I had not realised it, at the time. The mere sight of her had overshadowed everything else. She was there with me and that alone sustained me.
Her face wasn't blurred like the others had been. I looked into her eyes and then I let my gaze roam over her face, reacquainting myself with every detail of it, no matter how insignificant. And suddenly my heart was battling between grief and relief. A laugh began bubbling inside my chest, and at the same time, tears began prickling my eyes. Unable to do anything else, I took her between my arms and held her tight, grateful as I hadn’t been in a very long time for being able to feel the warmth of her body against mine. “Oh, John!” she had cried against my ear. “I’m so sorry...”
“I love you,” I had replied—as the tears finally fell from my eyes—with a fervor I didn’t entirely understand back then. It had been born out of the grief and relief that I had carried with me only moments before, but for some reason, it had also filled me with regret. I felt—even though I knew that it was not the case—that I had not made the fact that I loved her—hopelessly, completely and without reservations—absolutely clear to her. And that’s why I found myself unable to say anything else for the duration of our embrace.
Or so I had thought back then. I knew better now.
My moment of reflection was brought to a halt by a high piercing screech coming from downstairs. A moment of expectant silence went by, before the sound returned, growing increasingly erratic.
I held back a groan of frustration and got out of bed, knowing exactly where the sound was coming from and who was the reason behind it. The moment my steps echoed upon the stairs, the blasted noise stopped. Holmes was in the living room, sitting on the settee with his back towards me. I couldn’t see it from where I was standing, but I knew he was holding his poor violin hostage between his hands, ready to drag another tortured scream from it at a moment's notice. “Couldn’t you just knock on my door?”
A short low note from his violin was his only reply. I moved to look at his face. A thin moonlight beam entered through the broad bow window in front of him, allowing me to see most of his features clearly, except for his eyes. His mouth was drawn in a tight line.
I was contemplating what to say, when Holmes finally spoke, his voice so low and gentle that I would have missed it had I not been standing so close to him. "It was never my intention to survive my confrontation with Professor Moriarty."
The admission stung like a slap in the face but before I could reply, Holmes raised a hand; this time his voice was clear. “Please, if you interrupt me I won’t be able to speak of this again.” He waited for a moment to be certain that I would not talk and resumed. “You’re well aware that I’m a selfish man, Watson. That was never a problem when I was alone, but it changed after I met you. Working with you, being friends with you… It revived something within me that I thought had been dead and buried long ago. You gave my heart a reason to beat other than to keep me alive, Watson. You gave my soul the meaning it lacked when I was alone. At your side I was no longer pure appendix, I was no longer mere intellect. At your side I was a man of flesh and blood. A man that felt joy and pride, not only for the fruits of his work… but also for having you in his life.” His voice got significantly lower, and I had to kneel beside him to be able to hear him clearly. His pained eyes settled for a moment on the hand I had placed upon his knee, then he continued. “I had known what this was, of course,” he almost whispered, like it was a dirty secret. ”‘A weakness’ , I had thought at first, dismissively—you had become too essential to me; all I had to do was to keep my distance. But then you’d laugh, or smile at me—or even get angry at me for not taking good care of myself, and any distance would be damned; and I’d think: ‘A blessing.’“
We both knew what came next. He placed an icy hand upon mine and went quiet. While he spoke, he had angled his face downwards, hiding his eyes in the shadows, but I could still feel his fingers tremble, and I knew it was not due to the cold. In the lowest of whispers, he went on: “Then you got married... And I knew I had the right answer at last: ‘a curse.’”
He let out a bitter laugh. “Although I could not blame you for choosing marriage. It was only to be expected. You have always been the more sensible of the two, after all. However… I had underestimated my own capacity to tolerate pain. By the time I had realised my heart was no longer guarded by my pragmatic mind you were gone, and I felt like Adam must have felt after he had been cast out of paradise. I had walked through Eden, I had known peace. I had known contentment and I had rediscovered love. And it had all been snatched away from me by the cruel hand of the very same God I had learnt to worship and adore.”
“I did my best to ease myself back into my old self, but it wasn’t easy. You see, I am not particularly fond of the man I was before you came into my life. He's too cold and bitter. His soul is a void that devours everything and that cannot be satisfied. It wants and it demands everything: from the simplest of cravings to the lowest of vices. I could not stand the sight of him in the mirror, I could barely stand the feeling of him within me. The cases helped, and so did the morphia. During those few occasions, he ceased to exist. But he always returned, insistent as only he could be."
"You see now? Moriarty was my salvation as much as he was my damnation. He meant the death of this deplorable man that I was. He meant seeing you—having you all to myself—one last time. I craved that more than anything else. But I was not planning on being alive much longer. There wasn't any point to it. Once Moriarty was dead my detective work would come to an end, and I would have to remain in the company of that despicable man that I was for the rest of my days. I could not bear it. "
Holmes' fingers were still trembling under my hand. I was overwhelmed by the need to look into his eyes; I grabbed his hand and drew him gently towards the light. Pain blossomed in my chest at the sight of his dimmed gaze. "You were—and still are—one of the most remarkable and kindest men that I have ever known, Holmes. It breaks my heart to hear you speak of yourself in such a manner," I replied, matching his whispered tone. A pause. I smiled as gently as I could, knowing precisely how he would interpret my next words: "When I got back from Switzerland, Mary had been waiting for me at the station. I had been overwhelmed by my grief and by the grief of others inside that train. They had loved you and admired you, but they had not met you and their sorrow felt like an insult compared to mine. However, when I saw Mary, my grief... it changed—it morphed into relief.“ As I had expected, Holmes tensed and his hand began to ease backwards, but I covered it with my other hand and tightened my grip. “All I was able to tell her was that I loved her. I was overcome with regret, though I did not understand why.” I looked into Holmes’ eyes. “Mary had known, Holmes. She had known that the regret I felt was because of you. Every time I told her I loved her had been genuine, but it wasn't until she died that I realised that what I had been trying to do was avoid making the same mistake twice. After all…" I couldn't hide the tremble in my voice, "I had never told you that I loved you."
Silence fell upon us. Holmes seemed briefly stunned by my words. “Since when?” he said at last. Gone were the coldness in his touch and the bitterness in his voice. His trembling hands gripped mine with fervor. He pulled me towards him, the moonlight lighting up both of our faces. He looked like he always did when he found a clue that meant a breakthrough on a case. Beautiful.
“I’m… I’m not sure, Holmes. Probably since the very moment I saw you. You were such a fundamental part of me from that moment that I never realised what you meant to me until it was too late.”
He nodded as if in a trance, slowly. One of his hands loosened its grip upon my own and that same hand was placed upon my cheek. His thumb traced my jaw. “Oh, yes,” he whispered. “I know what you mean.”
“Holmes—”
“I wrote to you, you know, while I was away. Countless letters. Sometimes it was just a few words, sometimes several pages. There were times all I did was curse at you. But mostly I just tried to make sense of what I felt. I love you, John. I love you so much that being without you is simply too painful to even consider. I cannot bear you leaving me again.”
I gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. “You know,” I said, smiling. “For a genius you can be pretty stupid. I will be at your side for as long as you’ll have me.”
He did not reply, not immediately. “You kissed me.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “Yes, I did.” A beat. “May I do it again?”
The only reply I got was his lips upon mine. He was gentle but insistent, and this kiss was as intense as mine had been chaste. His tongue brushed mine with passion, and I knew he was drinking as much from me as I was from him. I brushed my fingers through his hair and I was rewarded with a growl from the back of his throat. “I love you, Holmes.” I said once we separated. “I love you.”
The next morning I woke up to find him standing in front of my bed, fully dressed. “What is it, Holmes? A case?” I slurred, still fighting the grip that sleep had on me. Holmes smiled. We had slept together for the first time the night before, yet there wasn’t any sign of that upon his person. He was as dashing and elegantly dressed as ever, and I took a moment to openly stare at him from head to toe under his watchful gaze. A soft pink coloured his cheeks. I grinned at him and he grinned back. Suddenly, it was like we were in our late twenties again.
“No, old boy,” he replied, “Just breakfast.”
Indeed, when I entered our sitting room there was a tray full of food and coffee waiting for us upon the table. I ate to my heart’s content, which I hadn’t done during the last few weeks, due to Holmes’ terrible mood. He seemed to notice, for his eyes went briefly downwards and he placed his coffee cup back upon the table. He looked at me in the eye. “John, I’m sorry.”
“Holmes—”
“No, Watson. What I said to you was terrible and you did not deserve a word of it. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, Holmes. You’re right, but I most certainly forgive you.”
He smiled at me with an openness that I was just starting to get acquainted with. His eyes no longer hid the love he felt for me, and he now allowed me to see it in every single one of his gestures and to hear it in every single one of his words. Even after finishing breakfast, as he sat on his armchair and placed his scrapbook upon his knees, he glanced at me with a contented look before burying his nose in it. And I knew he loved me as much as I loved him.
When Mrs Hudson came briefly after that to retrieve her tray she did not miss the change of atmosphere that had taken place inside our rooms. She looked at Holmes, a relieved sigh escaping her lips, and finally she looked at me, a knowing smile stretching over her face.
"She knows, Holmes!" I exclaimed once she left.
Holmes chuckled. "My darling," said he, a delighted tone in his voice. "Of course she knows."