Archive of Our Own

Love to faults is always blind,
always is to joy inclined.
Lawless, winged, and unconfined,
and breaks all chains from every mind.

William Shakespeare

I write this account with no intention of ever having it published. For one, it would mean my own condemnation and imprisonment, although I cannot manage to concern myself with that comparable triviality. The main reason for my reticence -- in troth, my only reason -- is that the events held within are too painful, and too shameful, for me to ever impart to another living soul.

As such, it is also an account of the last time I shall ever work with my long-time friend and co-lodger, Sherlock Holmes.

On the miserable evening that begins this tale, I walked down the nearly abandoned streets of the East End and hunched further into my overcoat. It was fast approaching the middle of March, but winter seemed sorely reluctant to release its grip on the city. After I had begun this much-needed escape onto the streets of London, the weather had taken an abrupt change for the worse, yet this I noted only peripherally. The bite in the air, the pervasive, unforgiving mist -- both seemed to fit my current mood perfectly. I did not even have a destination in mind, since "out" had been all my overtaxed nerves could comprehend at the time.

Holmes had always retained the ability to shock and amaze me, but this time, it hadn't even been his intent.

I should have been expecting it -- I had been expecting it -- but that didn't make the impact any less distressing. I only hoped that I had been able to mask the abject depths of that shock from Holmes' discerning eye.

He had barely looked up from his paper when I had announced my sudden intention to visit my club, but I knew it foolish to believe I could deceive him for very long.

Some would also call it foolish to walk alone in this part of town, especially in the dead of night. However, regardless of the old injuries that pained me even more profoundly in the cold damp, I was not in the least bit helpless. As had been my wont these last few weeks, I had almost absentmindedly pocketed my service revolver on my way out the door.

And I am, perforce, an excellent shot -- a skill that I had learned from a master.

But that was not all I had learned. Presence and attitude were as much a protection against the lower dregs of the criminal underworld as numbers or a conspicuous show of armament. If you appeared as if you were aware of your surroundings, as if you had a purpose, as if you belonged, the wary and dull mind of the petty criminal would oftentimes seek easier prey.

I found myself pausing at the mouth of a noisome alley that I remembered from my life before I had joined the Army. Perhaps I had a purpose in mind after all.

With a shrug of my uninjured shoulder, I decided to see if the old establishment was still in business. It undoubtedly was, although the proprietorship had no likely changed many times since my last visit so many years ago. It mattered little, for the organization that gleaned its ultimate profits was still very much intact.

Having Holmes so offhandedly confirm that uncomfortable fact still reverberated through my being like the echoes of a gunshot within a narrow canyon.

The time-ravaged cobblestones were still the same, the sagging lintel and ancient oak door with its rusting hinges were likewise still the same. Sometimes I felt as if nothing changed, as if no matter what choices you made during your lifetime, what life-altering changes you pursued, you would still inevitably end as you had started, with Fate laughing at your futile endeavours to alter that which you had so foolishly begun.

It was therefore no surprise that the series of knocks to gain admittance also remained unchanged, and I found myself once again in the smoke-filled confines of a place that I had tried very hard to forget.

There was no raucous activity, no frantic movements, and no loud noises as often distinguished the betting establishments favoured by the poor and unlettered. This house featured a different atmosphere altogether -- as if the exchanging of sovereigns and the loss of fortunes on this level required the same sort of hushed reverence one found only in a monastery. There was an occasional grunt, a pained intake of breath, the more rhythmic and pervasive sounds of cards and dice. It was rather peaceful in its own bleak way, which is why, no doubt, I had unconsciously sought its blessed oblivion again.

I happened upon a card game that had just lost a player, the sag of shoulders and cast of eyes giving proof to the loss of either a week's wages or a lifetime's earnings. It was hard to differentiate one from the other here, but the stakes appeared low enough at this table that I could afford to stand in for at least a short time.

To its most avid adherents, gambling is either a way of life or a way to escape from life. I had no doubts as to which avenue I pursued this night. As with many such vices, however, my gambling had begun as the former and had segued seamlessly and painfully into the latter.

And so I lost myself for some period of time, feeling nothing but the well-worn cards between my fingers and the equally worn coins that passed from hand to hand. Since my entire goal was to refrain from thinking, I lost more coins than I gained, but I found some level of peace.

All too soon, that fragile peace was eternally shattered.

"How often have I told you that if you must engage in this activity, that you employ at least some of the mental faculties that I know you possess in adequate measure?"

His voice was almost an abomination in the hushed room, but the clientele knew better than to protest. Only one man would dare such, and even though they had likely never seen his face, they would recognize the fierce-looking bodyguard who was no doubt standing by his side.

Likewise, I did not look up from the cards or make particular note of the almost awestruck visages of my fellow players. "As often as I have informed you that employing such faculties would defeat the entire purpose of the exercise."

There was a muffled gasp from one of the gentlemen seated across the table, but I was pleased to note that my voice was almost preternaturally level. It would seem that a release of tension inevitably ensued from the realization of one's ultimate fear, knowing the interminable wait was at last complete.

I had certainly expected he would make his presence known to me, even though he almost never visited these establishments in person. He had, no doubt, been notified as soon as my figure appeared in the doorway. There was little he did not know about this part of the city or its inhabitants.

To my eternal shame, there was equally little he did not know about me.

There was a soft chuckle from behind me. "You have changed very little, I see." I felt a long-boned hand settle firmly upon my shoulder. "Come, John, we have much to discuss."

And since I had indeed changed so little, I willingly acceded to his wishes.

**********************

He had a private brougham waiting, pulled very ostentatiously by a matched four-in-hand. While this display of overt wealth would normally make its occupants an inevitable target in this part of the city, the word had undoubtedly spread to accost this particular carriage at one's peril. I knew I was safer than if half of Scotland Yard were accompanying me.

When I had first learned who the distinguished man sitting next to me actually was, the insight had not been a comfortable one. In fact, I had been both devastated and unaccountably furious with him. To give myself the barest minimum of credit, I still was not comfortable with it. It seems I could at least feel guilt for our association, even if I could not find it within myself to act decidedly upon that guilt.

As was his usual practice, he did not speak of important matters while we were traveling. With his affairs, he had always said it best to keep business within the four walls that he knew to be secure. Since I did not feel capable of conversing on mere trivialities, the journey was therefore a silent one.

I soon discovered we were not traveling to his old "official" lodgings, where we had first advanced our relationship after I had transferred to the University of London, but to a far more palatial mansion in the West End -- a mere stone's throw from Westminster. He had indeed advanced much further in his "business" than he could ever have achieved as any university's chair.

He was still silent as we alighted from the brougham and he led me toward the entrance to his abode. As had been his habit, he guided me by virtue of a hand across my back. It was a common enough practice, even in this day and age, but I knew all too well the possessiveness behind this particular gesture.

He merely turned and smiled down at me as I shuddered slightly. "Are you cold, dearest John?"

I found I could not yet meet his eyes fully. "It is a miserable night," I said instead, ashamed that he already knew what I did not have the courage to voice.

"That it is," he agreed lightly. "But I find I cannot be distressed at the outcome of tonight's venture into unpleasantness."

While never sparing of words, he was not inclined to speak without purpose, so I struggled to get my flailing mind to engage in the conversation. "That depends on what the ultimate outcome will be."

He smiled at me again. "Of course, of course."

With a nod, he dismissed the ever-present shadow of his right-hand man, Colonel Moran. I was surprised to note the colonel nodding almost respectfully to me before disappearing into the shadows of the estate.

We handed our coats and hats to the taciturn butler waiting in the foyer, and it was a telling sign of my companion's arrogance and confidence that he did not require the relinquishment of my revolver as well. He led me again with the guiding hand to a comfortably appointed sitting room. His much greater height forced us to maintain a closer proximity than the mores of society would normally permit, but the eminent Professor James Moriarty was never an individual to be deterred by such a consideration, even had we been within the public purview.

There was a fire burning low behind an enormous grate, but the fireplace was large enough to provide the only illumination necessary in the room. The room itself was furnished in pale colours and bright paintings, and I found it oddly incongruent to hold such an uncomfortable conversation in these bright environs.

Although I know I had not voiced the sentiment out loud, he answered my thoughts anyway. "Just because my profession makes me distasteful in your eyes, does not mean we cannot inhabit a civilized location to discuss your concerns."

I looked at him sharply then, but he merely led me to a settee and sat down close beside me.

"I was under the impression that it was you who wished words with me," I said softly.

The broad eyebrows swept upward at that. "Indeed. This is the first time since you've returned from the war that you have visited one of my establishments . . . unaccompanied. I assumed you knew I was still overseeing business here. Or have you merely required the extra time to bolster your courage?"

I bristled at that comment, as he knew I would. He was well acquainted with the depth of my courage, or I would never have been able to leave him in the first place. There was normally only one penalty for crossing James Moriarty. "I suspected before. The confirmation to that supposition only arrived this night."

The silver-grey eyes lit at that. "Ah, yes, from your good friend Sherlock Holmes, no doubt."

I was not surprised that he knew of my flatmate, given the stir that Holmes must have caused with his investigations. However, the matter was best out in the open. "You have had me followed."

"Of course. Did you doubt that I would ever lose interest in your travails?"

I felt my chin jerk upwards. "You allowed me to go readily enough before."

He ran his hand through his thick, although greying hair in a rare sign of irritation. "Allowed you? Did you believe I would keep you against your will, after you made it so apparent you could no longer abide my presence?"

I said nothing, but my eyes must have betrayed me again.

He inhaled sharply. "You did, didn't you? Do you think me a fool, John Hamish Watson? I was well aware you would only come to hate me should I push you too hard. You were young, naive, idealistic, and when you said you were bound for Netley to join the Army, I thought it might do you some good. You would then see that the world is never black and white, but infinite shades of grey. You would see Man's inhumanity to Man firsthand, and I hoped it might open your eyes to the futility of your ridiculous sense of nobility. When I learned of your injury and did not know whether you would live or die. . . ."

"You followed my tour of duty in Afghanistan?"

He paused as if disconcerted at my ignorance. "You did not find it at all surprising you had such a capable orderly?"

"Murray was your man." It was not a question. I knew now that the foolhardy, miraculous rescue by my orderly had been nothing of the like.

The sharp grey eyes softened slightly. "Oh, do not be so distressed, John. As with many who enter your immediate sphere of influence, Murray soon became 'your man' and no longer merely my own."

I shook my head violently, appalled at his uncharacteristic frivolity.

"I am not being frivolous, John," said he, reading my mind yet again. "You are like a star, which all alone in a vast universe can attract bodies of sufficient mettle to blindly circle forever around its presence. Your avid admirers are like mere asteroids, forever doomed to orbit around the unbreakable force of your attraction."

He had always been a poet and a philosopher as well as a scientist, and I should not have been surprised that he combined those talents in such a manner.

Or that it would still affect me so profoundly.

But I dare not let him realise that. "Now, you are simply being facetious."

"If that is what you wish to believe."

"Then, if I do still hold some attraction to you, I would ask you one favour."

He took my hand in both of his, the elegant, long fingers wrapped in mine. "If it is in my power, dearest John, you know I would give it to you."

I locked my eyes with his. "Leave London, leave England if you can. Restart your organization elsewhere if you must -- I know you must have connections on the continent as well -- but leave before it is too late."

"Ah, you wish me to avoid my upcoming confrontation with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I am afraid, dearest, that is one boon I cannot grant you."

His fingers rubbed lightly against my own, and I pulled my hand back or risk losing myself entirely. "Do not be a fool, James! He is your equal in intellect, if not your superior. He will never give up until he crushes your organization completely."

"And you have so little faith in my abilities?"

I stood up and paced, so aggravated I was. "I have faith in both your abilities! You are two sides of a coin. Neither of you can win totally against the other. Should you meet for this final confrontation, you will only succeed in annihilating each other!"

He smiled gently. "Just as any two bodies would do should they possess a similar orbit and confluent trajectories."

"I am being serious, James!"

"As am I." He sighed loudly and stood to intercept my pacing. "I am afraid it is inevitable, John. I would lose too much credibility in the circles I travel to display any semblance of cowardice." He held me still with one hand and cupped the side of my face with the other. "I would suggest that you make the same entreaty of your Mr. Holmes, since you have such an influence on him."

I pulled away and faced the wall. "I have no 'influence' with Holmes. I am his conscience when he deems fit to listen to it, his physician when he is too busy to seek out another, and his foil when it proves necessary to his plans. I am nothing to him except those items I have just enumerated."

He came up behind me, his long arms wrapping around my chest. "I disagree wholeheartedly, my dearest John. You said it yourself -- 'two sides of the same coin'. You are to him what you are to me."

Turning me around in his arms, he cupped my face again.

"A weakness."

I felt my eyes widen, and I pushed his hand away violently as I stepped out of his embrace. "Now I know you are bereft of your sanity!"

Luckily for me, he had never been quick to anger and therefore merely smiled benignly down at me. "Is that an actual diagnosis, Dr. Watson, or are you making another baseless assumption?"

I glared at him, knowing that he would not accept such impertinence from anyone else. "First, you cannot possibly know of Holmes' predispositions toward me, especially when I have seen absolutely no evidence of such a regard. Secondly, if I were truly a weakness to you, you would have disposed of that weakness long since."

He stared at me for some time in silence before saying softly, "You have a weak leg since your injury in Afghanistan, John, yet you have not seen fit to have it 'disposed of.' Your leg is an indispensable part of you, even if it is a weakness, and so you are to me. I would no sooner have you killed than to remove a part of my own body."

I sat down heavily onto the settee, feeling the anger transform into the confusion he had always engendered in me. I knew somehow he was telling the truth. Holmes called James the "Napoleon of crime," and it was true he would kill for no other reason than to remove an inconvenient obstacle, yet I knew that he would spare my life merely because he considered me to be his.

He sat down beside me, took me into his arms and pulled my head to his chest. "John, there is no one more important to me than you. Deride my whimsical analogies as you will, but you have always been my source of light, my source of warmth, and the one bright spot in the universe that brings me happiness merely through the singularity of your existence."

There are no words to describe what I was feeling. Is it wrong to take comfort in the fact that one is so obviously desired, that one is so obviously loved? For love it had to be, knowing this man's morals and habits as I did. I knew he was a criminal of the basest kind, that he was -- in a word -- evil, but when he spoke to me so, I knew him only as the man who cherished me beyond all other things.

I was truly lost.

"And as for your Mr. Holmes, he is very fond of saying, 'you see but you do not observe.' Holmes is a loner, a misogynist, who has turned away any and all who attempt to get too close to him." He raised my head with a gentle tug on my hair. "Except for you, dearest John. Except for you. I wonder why that is?"

I shook my head, being careful to not dislodge his caressing hand. "Holmes is often too distracted with other matters to be bothered with social niceties. I am merely able to abide his eccentricities better than most."

"Precisely!" James beamed at me as if I were his prize pupil.

"I still fail to see how my tolerating his sometimes aberrant behaviour translates to overt affection on his part."

"John, as usual, your own modesty blinds you. I have researched your good friend Holmes almost as thoroughly as I have yourself. You see, I knew he and I would cross swords at some point, and it is always best to know one's enemy." One side of his mouth quirked upward in a lopsided smile. "Or one's rival."

"Do not be absurd."

He laughed then -- the laugh that lights up his eyes, brightens his entire visage and makes him appear very much younger than his true age. "I am never absurd, dearest John, foolish perhaps, when it comes to you, but never absurd. Ah, but still you doubt me. Then hear this: I have had the colonel observe the two of you during your investigations, very discreetly, of course. You know Moran is a man of few words, so tell me, John, what do you think he reported to me?"

My head was still spinning, and I found I could barely form a reply. "I am sure I have no idea."

"He said, 'Holmes looks upon the doctor as you did.' And that was all I needed to hear."

I still could not accept what he was telling me. While I knew Holmes bore me a certain fondness, I also know he had no use for "the baser and softer emotions," and if he did, to look upon me so? No. James was either mistaken or else he thought that imparting such information would be of use to him in some scheme.

And with that thought, I pulled away from him yet again. "James, please tell me you are not planning to use his supposed affection for me against him!"

He raised an elegant eyebrow. "If you mean, would I use a threat against you to lure him to his demise, then no, I could not. Note that I said 'could not', for although every instinct within me cries out against not using any tool at my disposal to rid myself of such an eminent opponent, I know you would forever despise me." He smiled slightly. "Or more so than you do already."

"I do not despise you. I despise what you have become."

He shook his head slightly. "Yet you are aware the two are nigh indistinguishable."

I couldn't deny that fact. The feelings that I held for him and the knowledge of his crimes were interwoven so tightly in my soul that I felt they constricted my very breath. Fanciful thoughts, and here I had always thought myself to be a practical man. I lowered my eyes and said, "I am also aware you only partially answered my question."

He chuckled softly. "Dearest John, you never cease to astound me. You deride your intelligence at every opportunity, yet you perceive the very heart of a matter with no effort at all. I should know better than to attempt misdirection with you."

I met his eyes with some reluctance. "Then you do wish to use me against Holmes."

He sighed. "Sun Tzu once said in The Art of War that 'knowledge of the enemy's dispositions can only be obtained from other men.' You are in the best position to fulfill that requirement. Is it asking too much to request that of you?"

It would seem my inconsistent conscience would only allow me a certain degree of vacillation regarding the boundaries of right and wrong. "You do not know me as well as you think you do, if you ask me such a thing. I will not betray Holmes, in any manner, to anyone . . . not even you, James. I would leave Baker Street before I would be used against him."

"Where would you go?"

"I have been seeing a young woman. . . ."

"Yes, the redoubtable Mary Morstan. Oh, do not be so surprised, dearest John. I told you that I have been following your endeavours -- in all things."

I raised my chin defiantly. "I am considering asking for her hand in marriage," I said.

He looked at me with that knowing smile of his, his high forehead crinkling slightly as he raised a single eyebrow. "I see. So she is to be your new Afghanistan."

"As usual, James, I fear I do not follow your reasoning."

"When your life become too stressful or uncomfortable, you find something or somewhere to escape those feelings. The first time it happened, when you discovered my alternate . . . occupation, it was to the Army. Now it appears to be Miss Morstan."

I felt my breathing quicken in anger. "I am in love with her!"

"No, you are not. You are undoubtedly fond of her. I know you would honour and treasure her should you marry, for you are an honourable man, dearest John." He paused and drew me closer to him. "But you cannot love her, and I believe you are honest enough with yourself to know why."

"I do not know why I stay and listen to this!"

He pulled me against his still muscular torso and lifted my chin. "I believe you have divined the answer to that as well."

I felt myself trembling slightly and knew that he reveled in it, but I also knew better to resist him at times like this.

He kissed me then, softly and chastely, as if I were the most precious and fragile object in all the world, and my former resolve to permanently leave this man and banish my base desires fled like the moon before the sun.

This, then, is my shame. When I am in his arms, the outside world and its fluctuating concepts of right and wrong, morality and immorality, simply cease to exist. We are merely two human beings finding what pleasure we can in each other. Is it only my pride then, that takes such comfort in being desired by this vastly more intelligent and powerful man? I had hoped that my tour in the Army would make me less susceptible to such vulnerabilities and self-doubts, but it appears I had been wrong.

He smiled down into my eyes, as always seeming to read my most private thoughts. "Sometimes, John, it is best not to think too hard on things." He then carefully relieved me of my revolver before unbuttoning first my waistcoat, then my shirt. As in times past, he did not request my permission first, nor did I offer even a token protest as he pressed me back against the settee.

But then, he had always known me better than I knew myself.

**********************

James Moriarty had been my first lover, although assuredly not my last. After the shock of discovering his criminal ventures, I had turned to the fairer sex in an effort to purge him from my psyche.

It had not worked, of course.

To his credit, he had never attempted to hide his illicit activities from me. I had merely been blind, willfully so, perhaps. I had been so flattered by his interest in me that I simply refused to "observe" what I saw. I have no doubt he intended me to be his partner in all things, and I still wince in remembrance when I informed him of my intention to leave. For a man who hid his emotions so well, his distress had been almost palpable in its intensity.

Yes, it is possible to cause emotional pain to one such as he. Even those whom society brands as "evil" have someone they feel affection for, whether it be familial or romantic love. This is true for tyrants, despots, and murderers as well, for it is said that even Brutus had a wife whom he married solely for love.

But now that I am once again in James' arms, I realised exactly how much I had missed his touch.

He has always been a compassionate lover, if sometimes an overly forceful one. However, this night he undressed me slowly, completely, by the now dwindling firelight. From past experience, I did not attempt to disrobe him as well.

As in the past, I was vaguely embarrassed to be rendered completely nude while my lover was still fully clothed. This arrangement was a preference of his, although certainly not because he was ashamed of his physique. He preferred wrestling over Holmes' predilection for boxing, but it was obvious he had kept himself healthy and fit. It is merely that when he is in this frame of mind, he requires mastery of all things, and that is particularly true with regard to me.

It is not easy to describe how he makes me feel. I am aroused merely by his brazen appreciation of my form. He appraises me with his eyes as thoroughly as a painter would a Rembrandt, or a musician a previously undiscovered composition of Mozart. Although I am oftentimes ashamed of the disfiguring wounds left by the jezail bullets, I have no such fear with James. His eyes simply do not linger there, unlike those of my previous lovers. Perhaps this is because he has always possessed the ability to blend minutiae into a single, overall impression.

Much like Holmes, I suppose.

James will not be rushed in any of his endeavours, and it is clear he enjoyed my helpless shiver when his eyes eventually did linger on my manhood. His darkly clad body hovered over me like a hawk over its prey, yet I felt nothing but a desire to be devoured by him. The knowledge that tonight he would make me wait aroused me even further.

"Please, James."

His palm touched my cheek, ever so briefly, and my head turned to its receding heat like a plant to the sun.

"You were always so eager," he said, "but I have told you before, these things take time to do properly." His voice has taken on that deeper intonation that conveys his own arousal, even were I not able to see its evidence straining the fabric of his trousers.

"It has been so long." I looked away in embarrassment then, not liking the pleading note in my voice.

He stroked my hair with one hand, lightly brushing against my ear as he did so. I shivered again.

"You have not been with another man since we parted."

I looked at him sharply. It was not a question, and it was suddenly clear just how closely he had been monitoring my movements.

"You have slept with many women, all of them befitting a certain type. They are demure, passive, well bred, and polite." His stroking hand found my chin and lifted it to meet his eyes. "You obtain release through these rather staid encounters, but you do not find fulfillment."

He leaned down to kiss me then, the edge of his coat brushing against my naked chest. I tried lifting my body to prolong the contact, desperate for any sensation, but he would have none of it. He held me firmly with one hand on my hip and proceeded to plunder my mouth with his supremely talented tongue. I moaned.

"Only I know what you truly need, dearest John." He lifted his head from mine. "Only I know. And proud as you are, you would not accept it from anyone else, would you?"

I did not answer him, but I knew he spoke the truth. I would not be this passive were I with anyone but him. His attitude, his forcefulness, his sheer strength of will seem to relieve me of the guilt I feel in these immoral encounters. He has never needed to physically restrain me with anything but his hands and his words, since my body almost instinctively capitulates to his wishes, leaving me so hopelessly, helplessly aroused.

"Please," I said again.

He smiled, although I could barely see it with the rapidly diminishing firelight. The illumination was low enough that it already deprived my eyes of the clarity of colour. Soon it would be naught but black upon a deeper black, but for now, it was myriad shades of grey. His eyes, his hair, the shimmering paleness of his face and throat. In the gathering gloom, it was he whom I was entirely fixated upon.

As it had always been.

He touched me then, but lightly, almost unbearably so. His hands roamed from my neck, to my chest and down to my stomach, but they lingered nowhere that I craved. He was sensitizing my skin, so much so that the mere breath of his passing, the barest touch of a sleeve would leave me arching my body for more.

I was panting now, almost painfully loud in the silence of the room. He would sometimes silence me with his mouth upon mine, almost as if he were feeding upon the vocalizations of my arousal. At one such time, he brushed my nipple with his thumb, knowing that it was profoundly sensitive. I gasped, straining upward against him, and he made a soothing sound but continued to brush against the hardened nub until I was nearly breathless from my futile exertions.

He pulled away from my mouth then, his lips swollen with our kisses. His hand moved across my chest to worry at the other nipple, and he watched in silence as I writhed upon the settee, my body already covered in patches of sweat. He bent his face to the abandoned nipple and proceeded to lave it with his tongue, interspersed with sharp nips from his teeth.

I think I cried out then, but I was focussed so completely on his attentions that I could not be certain, for his free hand was moving downward, ever closer to my neglected sex.

Oh, I knew he would make me wait. It was much too soon, and he would not allow me my release this quickly. His hand made small circles on my heaving belly instead, avoiding my member skillfully although his face was still occupied with suckling my nipples. I was gasping almost continuously, interspersed with actual words I would not remember later. I knew that my entreaties would go unanswered in any case, but when he lifted his head at last from my chest, I could not help but catch his eyes with mine, the plea readily apparent for him to see.

He gently smiled a denial of my request, his eyes instead roving over my exposed form, seemingly entranced by the effect of his ministrations. I knew I must look shamelessly wanton, straining and writhing upon the settee like a well practiced whore.

"Do you know how utterly beautiful you are, John?" he asked, as he caressed the insides of my thighs and my hipbones with firmer strokes. "When you are like this, I can hardly perceive why I ever allowed you to leave my side."

He cupped my testicles in one hand, and any reply I would have made was lost in my astonished gasp.

Leaning close over my straining erection, he said, "I will touch you now, if you can promise not to come, John."

I looked down at him desperately, not knowing how to answer. I did not think I could promise such a thing, since his very breath was causing me to twitch and leak in my excitement, but neither could I tell him "no" in such a situation.

He must have seen the utter despair in my eyes, because he finally took pity on me. "Just a small taste then, I see." He waited until I had jerkily nodded my head before lowering ever so slowly toward my erection.

I gripped the side of the settee, my breaths coming in laboured gasps, but still he made me wait. Fearing the sight of his swollen lips so close would undo me without even being touched, I closed my eyes, but it was just then that I felt the slick glide of his tongue across my length.

Eyes flying open, I cried out and rose off the settee toward his retreating mouth, and this time, it required both his hands on my hips to hold me still.

"So responsive, always so responsive." He lowered his head again, catching my eyes. "Do you think you can take more, dearest, just a little more?" He licked his lips.

I shuddered but nodded my assent just the same. I was certainly not sure, but he was very skilled at keeping me on the edge without allowing me to fall over. I also knew he would be disappointed if I allowed myself to achieve release without waiting for him.

It was for this reason that I struggled to keep my eyes open as he descended upon me. I was not sure this helped, for the anticipation of watching his tongue as it halted just above my length was almost as arousing as the actual touch. His eyes met mine through his lashes, and I braced myself again as his tongue made another quick stroke across me. He was ready for my involuntary upward movement this time and held me down as he continued to lave my erection with his tongue -- short, broad strokes that did now allow me the friction or contact I needed to find my release. It was maddening, almost unbearable, and yet I did not wish it to end.

However, when his tongue swirled across my sensitive head, I cried out sharply and gripped his shoulder, begging him silently to stop before it was too late. It was almost beyond my capacity, so close I was, but I knew that even more pleasurable events would ensue if I could simply hold back.

With one last languorous, deliberate swipe of his tongue, he sat back to survey his handiwork. He laid one hand possessively on my erection as he watched me shudder and twitch, trying desperately to control myself, and I lowered my eyes in embarrassment.

Releasing me, he again pulled my chin up with his hand. "You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, dearest John." He was stroking himself through his trousers with his free hand, and I found I could not take my eyes from the sight. Smiling, he said, "As you can see, you are not the only one to be affected so." He held out a hand to me, and I took it, trembling in anticipation.

I scrambled onto my hands and knees, waiting impatiently while he unstoppered the vial of oil he had pulled from his coat pocket. He took much less time than usual in preparing me, which I attested to the advanced state of his own arousal. Still, I was writhing in need by the time he finished. I was mildly surprised that he did not take me in that position, but he evidently had other plans this night.

He helped me off the settee, then sat down and pulled his phallus from his trousers. After coating himself thoroughly with the oil, he beckoned with a gesture for me to approach and turn around.

I stared at him doubtfully. The position he was indicating was an awkward one at best, and I was sure my injured thigh would complicate matters even further.

"John," his voice chided me. "Do you think me so old and infirm that I cannot assist you?"

"Of course not!"

"Then do not doubt me so." His grey eyes flashed dangerously, and I was reminded yet again that it was not wise to cross this man too often.

The eyes softened, however, when I came to him readily, without further protest.

He took both my hands in his and looked up at me. "John, do you trust me?"

"Yes, of course," I answered, without a pause. I know this was strange, given his background, but somehow I did trust him.

"Then trust that I would never allow you to come to harm."

I have no doubt he could talk a clergyman into committing a mortal sin, yet I was certain I heard truth in his words.

Nodding once, I turned around, straddling his legs and lowering myself slowly toward the hard phallus waiting for me. James gripped my hips with both his hands, supporting me in case I should slip, and I braced myself further with my right hand on the arm of the settee.

I guided him to my entrance with my free hand, allowing myself to sink slowly down onto his length. I was forced to go very slowly, as it had been some time since our last encounter, and he was in no manner a small man. His supporting grip was like iron, however, and although I knew I would have bruises on my hips afterwards, I felt my confidence return. Once obtained, this position was a particularly pleasurable one for me, as it was no doubt for James as well.

When I had finally managed to take him completely within me, feeling the soft fabric of his trousers against my buttocks, he made a soft sound of satisfaction. I started to move, but he held me tight against his chest and stilled me. He nuzzled my earlobe with his lips, murmuring, "Always in a hurry," before moving down to nip at the soft skin of my neck. He continued to lick at my neck while his restraining hands moved upward to roll and pinch my nipples. I arched upward in response, my sudden movement causing his phallus to bump sharply against my prostate. Gasping, I strained upward and downward on his length, craving a repetition of the intense sensation, but those strong hands again forestalled me.

"I see it will require stronger measures to curtail your enthusiasm," he said. He gradually pressed himself further back against the settee, forcing me to follow his backward motion until I was no longer upright and had no leverage whatsoever. With one hand, he gripped the top of my forehead, not allowing me any movement.

I trembled, as this position pressed him even deeper inside me. Knowing it was a lost cause, I tried to remain still as his free hand began its explorations, teasing both my nipples mercilessly before slowly moving toward my erection. I was stretched to my limit, with my spine arched and my head pressed backward against his shoulder. I could not see him, only feel him, and it was about to drive me mad.

He started to move his hips then -- short, sharp thrusts that nonetheless struck flawlessly against my prostate every time. It was not enough motion to allow my release, just enough to inflame, and I felt my hand move toward my own erection in an attempt to ease my torment.

My hand was intercepted quickly, his fingers briefly intertwining with mine before releasing me again. "Easy, John, easy. It won't be long now."

He returned to stroking my belly, flanks, and thighs, but he must have been close himself, for he did not wait more than a minute or two before he took my length firmly in his hand. He had never ceased the small movements of his hips, and I strained upward into his hand, desperately reaching for release. Even with the fire dying slowly to embers, I was covered in sweat, and his grip was slick when he finally started to move upon me with firm, smooth strokes.

I was gasping open-mouthed now, and such was the volume of my own breathing that I did not hear the door opening. Instead, it was the sudden draft and the band of light from the hallway falling upon my straining figure that caused me to freeze in terror.

Of course, James would not have locked the door. His servants knew the penalty of interfering with his affairs, and besides, there was only one man who would dare to interrupt James Moriarty at all.

"What is the problem, Colonel?"

Far from being discomfited by Moran's appearance, it seemed not to disturb James at all. His hand moved from my phallus to my left thigh, but whether it was to cover the disfigurement of my wound or to more clearly display my attributes to his right-hand man, I do not know. It was most decidedly not out of embarrassment, for his hips never ceased their incessant motion, causing my own hips to jerk helplessly from his onslaught, even in my extreme state of mortification.

"Well, out with it, man!" James said tightly.

Moran cleared his throat before speaking. "The . . . gentleman . . . you wished to speak to has arrived . . . sir."

James tucked his head down, as if in thought, but his left hand resumed its gentle stroking of me as he pondered his reply, causing me to gasp in distress. I tried to move my head to escape, but James merely tightened his grip across my forehead. I was aghast that I continued to respond to his touch, even with such an audience, but I could feel my arousal growing in his knowing grip.

"I assume he will not be missed until daybreak?"

Another pause. "No, sir."

"Then keep the gentleman . . . comfortable . . . until I am available to speak with him."

His thumb slipped over the tip of my cock, and I groaned aloud, managing to thrust my hips upward even in my awkward position.

James grunted at my sudden movement, but still said calmly, "That will be all, Colonel."

"Y. . . yes, sir."

The door closed then, and James chuckled into my ear. "Ah, the way he stared at you, dearest John. I would normally dismiss him from my service for such a transgression, but I find I cannot blame him."

He moved more strongly inside me, and I tried unsuccessfully to stifle another moan.

"Not that he is an invert, in any case, but you would surely tempt an angel with the way you look at this moment. Besides, he has always been fond of you."

As his strokes became firmer on my cock, I could not voice my query, although he obviously knew what I was thinking.

"He has never volunteered to teach anyone his skill at marksmanship, yet as I recall, he was quite pleased with his efforts on your behalf." He sat upright and released his grip on my forehead.

Now that I finally was free to move upon him in earnest, he steadied me with a firm grip under my buttocks.

"Even though he does not share our proclivities, seeing you like this definitely intrigued him. But then, you are certainly the most erotic display any man could hope to see."

His voice was hoarser now, and I knew he was near his own completion. I did not have the strength to raise my head from his shoulder, but I moved shamelessly upon him, my bad leg forgotten in the ecstasy of being so close to release.

"What say you, dearest John? Should I call him back so he may watch you finish?" His hands on my hips gripped me tighter, his voice lowering. "Perhaps not, as I find your expression when you come is one I wish to keep to myself." With that, he slammed upward into me as hard as he could, and I opened my mouth in a silent scream as I poured my seed onto my belly and chest. I felt James pulse inside me and knew he had found release as well, but his grip upon me never wavered.

We gasped nearly in unison for some time, but I finally heard his voice whisper in my ear. "You are an absolute treasure, John, and I find I am loathe to let you go this time."

**********************

He held me tightly for some time after we had finished, almost in a silent counterpoint to his spoken words. I was not disturbed by his proclamation, nor by his continued physical possession of my body. For one, I did know this man very well, and regardless of my misgivings as a much younger man, I knew he would not deign to keep me against my will. And at this time, sated and feeling almost pathetically self-indulgent, I wondered if his claim against my person would be such a bad thing, in any case.

James Moriarty is a virile man, even given his age, and there have been times in the past that we have remained connected in such a manner until we were ready to begin anew. He was still quite hard inside me now, and I found myself reluctant to lose that feeling of being filled so completely.

Of course, I would have been more eager to remove myself from this compromising position had I any fear that Moran would return, but only a fool would interrupt the professor twice in such a manner, and Sebastian Moran was definitely not a fool.

Eventually, I felt James' hands remove the evidence of my release with what was most likely his handkerchief. Still, I was reluctant to open my eyes, my head lolling contentedly against his shoulder.

He chuckled in my ear. "You are like a cat in a sunbeam, John."

I opened one eye, barely, as it seemed reluctant to obey me. "Am I too heavy?"

"Absolutely not, dearest. In fact, you appear to have lost significant weight since the war."

I sighed. "I was quite ill for some time, and I have never regained the appetite I once possessed."

He moved his hips sharply, causing me to grunt and my member to twitch decisively.

"Well, there is one appetite that does not appear diminished."

I blushed furiously, as he knew I would.

With another soft chuckle, he kissed me on the side of my face, then slapped me soundly on my hip. "Unfortunately, John, I do have another pressing engagement, or else I would be honoured to continue feeding that insatiable appetite of yours."

And so gravity brought me crashing down to earth again. I have no idea why that statement should cause me such distress, but distress me it did.

I levered myself painfully from his lap, and my leg twinged forcefully enough to cause my sudden unintentional descent once more upon the settee.

James took a moment to clean himself with the handkerchief and set himself to rights before kneeling in front of me. "John, dearest, do not look so distraught. Surely this is not the only time we shall meet?"

"When I came here tonight, I had every intention of telling you that our old relationship was in the past . . . and that I would have nothing aught to do with you."

"And now?"

I could not meet his eyes. "And now I am surely lost."

"Your conscience tells you one thing while your heart demands another." There was no triumph in his voice, only a deep and abiding understanding. The caring in his voice nearly unmanned me.

I locked eyes with his then. "I do love you, James, but I cannot, simply cannot betray Sherlock Holmes. You are the symbol of everything he has been fighting against, and what you are doing is both legally wrong as well as immoral."

"Just as our relationship is immoral." There was bitterness in his voice now.

"You know that is not what I am referring to."

"Yes, I do know. That does not make your words any easier to hear."

He got up briefly to tend to the fire, obviously needing the time to organize his thoughts, then he returned to sit next to me.

"John, I would not have you change, for your sense of duty and honour is an integral part of you, and losing that would make you a complete and utter stranger to me." He took my hand in both of his. "Yes, what I do is considered criminal in the law's eyes as well as society's, but I would ask you to think on this: it has been quite some time since I have been forced to resort to extreme measures to enforce my will, as my reputation alone is sufficient to maintain my authority. My organization has brought order to an underworld that would always exist, even were I not around to enforce certain rules. I do not kill or maim because I enjoy it, John. You must realise that now, even if you had not realised it in the past."

"That changes little. If you will not leave, then you or Holmes -- or more likely, both of you -- will die."

"Regardless of the other more practical reasons, I cannot leave London, for London is where you are, and as I have said, I am forever fated to remain in your orbit." He gripped my hand tighter. "If you cannot convince your flatmate to desist, then it appears your predicted outcome is indeed inevitable."

I shuddered. "I could never ask Holmes to cease his quest against you. He would demand to know the reason why I ask such a ridiculous thing."

"Do you fear this conversation because he would know you for an invert, or because this immoral liaison is with me?"

I shook my head. "Both . . . neither. He would surely eject me bodily from the flat in either case."

James smiled faintly. "I think your assumptions are in error, at least on one account." He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "If you cannot speak to Holmes, why not attempt that conversation with his brother?"

"Mycroft?" I was aghast and pulled my hand abruptly from his in shock. "Why on earth would I do such an inordinately insane thing?"

He laughed. "Oh, the expression on your face, John!" He kissed my still open mouth soundly. "I merely put forth that of any man alive, Mycroft is the one most likely to convince Sherlock Holmes to . . . modify his actions. Furthermore, I honestly believe his reaction to your request may surprise you."

"I sincerely doubt that, since I will certainly not discuss such matters with him in the first place!"

"Where is that vaunted courage of yours, Dr. Watson?"

My mouth descended into a petulant frown. "There is courage, and there is foolhardiness. I might as well continue in my current state of undress and announce myself on the floor of Parliament."

James laughed louder this time. "Now that is a sight I would surely pay to see, although I fear you would induce a heart condition in some of its more stodgy members." He took my hand again. "Come, John, let me get you on your way, before your inquisitive flatmate becomes too suspicious of your tardiness."

I stumbled as he brought me to my feet, my injured thigh again protesting the night's abuses.

He steadied me, a frown forming on his face. "Perhaps I should provide you with an escort, since I seem to have exacerbated your injuries. I could send Moran. . . ."

"Heavens, no!" I said, shuddering. "I do not think I can ever lock eyes with that man again."

He smiled at me wickedly. "It was not your eyes he was looking at, John."

I crossed my arms belligerently, ignoring the painful twinge in my shoulder and the fact that my continued nakedness made the pose slightly less effective. "No, absolutely not. I am not an invalid, in any case, James."

"No, not with your foolish pride." He sighed. "Very well, let us get you presentable -- although that is with a great deal of reluctance on my part -- and I shall at least summon a cab for you." He smiled down at me again. "Though I do wish most heartily that you rethink your decision regarding Mycroft Holmes. I think you would find that meeting . . . enlightening."

**********************

I sat alone in the hansom cab that James had procured for me and decided I was the basest coward upon the face of the earth. I knew very well that James' "pressing engagement" was yet another of his nefarious schemes, for a gentleman did not meet with another gentleman at this hour of the night for tea and polite conversation, especially after insuring that said gentleman would not be "missed until daybreak." I did not ask James what this upcoming meeting entailed, simply because I knew he would tell me, and tell me without hesitation.

What I did not know, I could not relate to Scotland Yard, and yet I felt the most horrid of creatures for not demanding the truth.

What had happened to my lofty ideals, I wondered, my satisfaction at assisting Holmes (however minuscule that assistance) in apprehending criminals and bringing them to justice? Was I such a hypocrite that I could brag of my friend's accomplishments in the Strand yet fail to assist in apprehending the most powerful criminal in London so he could pay for his crimes?

I feared the answer was "yes," for I did love James, loved him dearly, and it seemed I loved him beyond all reason. If not for Holmes, then perhaps I would have continued as I had before -- pretending ignorance to my paramour's misdeeds while likewise attempting to ignore the almost irresistible attraction that drew me to him, even after so long a separation.

However, I could not allow Holmes to come to harm through my own lack of character and morals. The world would be a much darker place without Sherlock Holmes, and I knew I could not live with myself if he died because of my inaction. After this night's conversation with James, I realised that my admiration for Holmes was at least partly due to a half-formed attraction to him, but in any case, he is my dearest friend. If I could not find a way to prevent that confrontation, I knew I would have to intercede on Holmes' behalf.

And yet, would I be able to betray James? Or even worse, given the scenario I feared most, kill him to protect Holmes? I shuddered, and not merely from the cold seeping into my bones. The very thought filled me with the utmost dread, and I resolved forthwith to come up with some method to circumvent that necessity.

As the hansom cab traveled onward through the nearly deserted London streets, I even considered baring my soul to Holmes in an attempt to resolve my dilemma. I could surmise Holmes' reaction to the sordid truth of my involvement with James Moriarty, and it was not a pleasant image. The pursing of lips and cold glint in his eyes that he normally reserved for the vilest of criminals would instead be directed at me. I would lose the regard of this brilliant man if I had to confess my sins, but I knew I would do so without hesitation if another method did not reveal itself to me.

I sighed, resting my head against the window of the carriage. Evidently I had not fallen completely from the path of righteousness.

Since it was my habit to walk from my club to our lodgings, I could not take the cab directly to Baker Street. I had no desire to arouse Holmes' suspicions at this point. I instead instructed the cabbie to take me to my club, fearing Holmes would discern somehow from the dust on my shoes or the wear on my cane if I had not walked the entire distance. I did not consider this a likely occurrence, but he had surprised me countless times before.

After paying the fare, I debated going inside to assuage my thirst, but the hour was already quite late, and it would take me some time to complete the long walk to Baker Street. With a sigh, I started off down the street.

It was not long before my thigh protested strongly the unaccustomed activity of this evening. I was forced to lean even more heavily on my cane than usual, and I can only blame my extreme fatigue and wandering thoughts for what happened next.

If I had been paying attention, I would have noted with suspicion the doused gaslight as I passed. As it was, I undoubtedly appeared an easy target with my limping gait and distracted mein.

He was upon me quickly, coming up soundlessly from behind and using a garrote around my neck to pull me into a narrow alley. I dropped my cane, as both my hands went reflexively to my throat in an attempt to relieve the pressure against my airway.

"Jus' give up yer valuables, mate, an' no further harm will come to ya."

The man was much shorter than me, given the direction of his voice and the downward as well as backward pressure against my throat. He fairly reeked of cheap alcohol, but he was still abominably strong. Given that his clothes exuded the faint odour of fish and the sea, I guessed him to be either a displaced sailor or dockworker. I did not require Holmes' deductions to know he must be newly arrived to London, for he was obviously unaware he had accosted someone he should have most definitely allowed to pass unmolested.

I almost felt sorry for him, should this incident ever come to James' notice.

When I began to struggle, loosening somewhat the garrote's grip upon my neck, he pushed me closer to the weathered bricks of the nearest building. He no doubt intended to bash my forehead against the wall to subdue me, but I found I was in no mood to be waylaid tonight. As we approached the wall, I kicked against it with both feet, forcing him to bear my weight as well as the resulting backward momentum. We crashed heavily onto the ground, my attacker taking the brunt of the fall.

It was a testament to his strength and desperation, and quite possibly my own prior injuries, that it took some time before I managed to get the upper hand in the altercation. He was so tenacious that I was never able to reach for my revolver, and we spent several minutes rolling on the damp cobblestones and exchanging blows. He eventually realised I was not so easy a mark and ran off, no doubt fearing the attention our noisy altercation might bring. By that time, however, I rose to my feet very slowly indeed. I could almost feel the bruises developing on my face and body from his determined fists and elbows.

I limped heavily to the mouth of the alley, finding my cane but not a single soul about. I was in no condition to engage in pursuit, and I decided wearily that I would report the encounter to the police later, if I did so at all. I had a feeling my attacker would be long gone by morning.

After attempting to put my ravaged clothes to rights, I set off again toward Baker Street, this time paying closer attention to my surroundings. Other than an occasional carriage rattling through the empty streets, and the even rarer drunkard or lamplighter, I was quite alone. It was with great gratitude, however, that I finally reached the front door of 221B. By that time, a significant number of my joints and muscles had begun to stiffen from the night's misadventures in the cold damp.

Trudging up the seventeen steps to our sitting room seemed to take an interminable time, and I unlocked and opened the door with some trepidation, fearing Holmes would be awake and deduce all of my night's endeavours from the condition of my clothes and the expression on my face.

Luckily, he had apparently retired for the night, for there was nothing but pipe smoke and an acrid odour reminiscent of one of his fouler chemical experiments lingering in the air.

After ascending to my room and disposing of my coat (as it was in a most disreputable and irreparable condition), I decided it would be best to take a bath before retiring. Although I wanted nothing more than to collapse upon my bed, as a doctor I knew it unwise to leave my various scrapes and cuts untended. Besides, the hot water would help to soothe the aches I knew would otherwise make me unbearably stiff by morning.

The water from the gas heater, for a change, was comfortably warm rather than tepid or unbearably hot, and I sighed contentedly as I settled into the large cast iron tub. Bathing regularly was something I had missed most severely while in Afghanistan, and I made the most of the hedonistic pleasure this night.

However, when I found myself nodding off for the third time, I determined it was best to get out of the tub before I drowned. While this might resolve permanently my own personal problems, it would in no way change the upcoming confrontation between the two men I loved most.

I was normally very careful when exiting the bathtub, but it was not the slippery tiles that were my undoing this time, but my thrice-damned war injury. The leg refused to hold me when I stepped out of the bathtub, and I cried out involuntarily when I then attempted to use the injured arm to prevent myself from falling.

Evidently I had hit my head on the solid cast iron of the tub when I fell, since I do not recall the moment when Sherlock Holmes entered the bathroom. His face was simply hovering over mine when I was finally able to focus again.

I cursed aloud.

He must indeed have been asleep, because his normally neat hair was sleep tousled and his dressing gown clearly thrown on with some haste, but his eyes were as bright and focussed as if it were broad daylight.

"Watson!" The seeming anxiety in his face resolved somewhat, and I surmised I had indeed been unconscious for at least some period of time. "Are you quite all right?"

As more of my senses coalesced about me, I flushed red in embarrassment. Bad enough that I should wake him with such a careless fall in a bathtub, but to have my friend see me in my current state of undress was infinitely worse.

"I am sure I am fine, Holmes. I merely slipped upon alighting from the bathtub. I am truly sorry to have awakened you."

When I made a move to get up, he latched onto my forearm with a strong hand, and I cannot say I was sorry for his assistance. He guided me to sit on the upholstered chair we used for dressing and turned to take the towel from the vanity. It was when he turned back to face me that his vaunted observational skills finally noticed my other injuries. I can only say it must have been the lateness of the hour and his focus on my possible head injury that had garnered his full attention previously. His eyes widened, and although I reached upward for the towel, he did not release it to me.

Instead, he knelt down in front of me, his eyes and hands cataloguing my injuries with his usual care and precision. The close scrutiny intensified my acute embarrassment.

"Holmes, good man, if you would please. . . ."

He let out a slight gasp, and I followed his gaze to the now livid bruises on my hips.

I fairly snatched the towel from his loose grasp and covered myself, fearing his investigations would delve into those of a far more personal nature.

His head shot up and his eyes locked with mine. "Who did this to you?" he asked in a tight voice, very unlike his usual urbane drawl.

I found I was even less inclined to relate the truth of my night's activities while in such a close and compromising position. I settled on a part-truth. "It is nothing. I was accosted on the street by a would-be thief who had the good fortune to catch me unawares."

His eyes narrowed. "Yes, a smallish man, although one of relatively strong musculature, given the shape and direction of the garrote mark upon your neck. With the faintness of the bruising and the hoarseness of your voice, it must have been a very recent encounter. He was most likely a former member of the Army or Navy, since the pattern of your injuries is not that of a common street brawler, but one who has been trained at some point in the art of fighting. If he had been a professional boxer or wrestler, forgive me, Watson, but you would not have weathered the encounter so relatively unscathed."

I was, as usual, quite astounded. "While I obviously cannot attest to the veracity of all your deductions, Holmes, I do believe you are quite correct, as usual."

"Yes, but he is not the individual of whom I inquired."

"What?"

He moved the towel far enough to expose my hip. "This injury occurred much earlier in the evening . . . and was caused by a much taller man." He traced the long, narrow bruises with the tip of one finger, and I shivered slightly. "As a doctor, I am sure you are aware that the length of the finger bones has at least some correlation with the length of the other bones in the body. Even given the occasional anatomical oddity, these marks were definitely not caused by your most recent attacker."

I stared at him in shock, and I could only imagine what my continued silence told him.

"Who did this to you?" he repeated softly.

While it seemed my mind was frozen in terror, I was painfully aware that his question had not been, "What did he do to you?"

"John," he said, "there is absolutely no shame on your part, but if we are to bring this brute to justice, I must have something with which to begin my investigation."

I covered my face with my hands, unable to divine any way out of this conundrum. For once in our long relationship, the great Sherlock Holmes had misconstrued the facts, but the thought of being forced to lie to my friend was tearing me apart inside.

He took both my hands in his and tugged gently, looking me directly in the eye. His caring expression was one I had not been privy to in our mutual past, and the sight of his obvious concern made my dilemma even harder to bear.

I shook my head. "Please, this is one situation you simply cannot fix without compromising your own ideals."

"You will kindly allow me to be the judge of that."

"Holmes," I said, and the anguish was apparent even to my own ears. "I cannot give you the information you seek. I beg you, for both our sakes, to let this matter drop!"

"Then you do not know me very well at all, my dear Watson, if you think me capable of such a thing."

**********************

Holmes was gone when I awoke the next morning following a restless, troubled sleep. Thankfully, he had not pressed me for further details that night but had instead fetched my dressing gown and assisted me up the stairs to my room.

His silence had not reassured me, however, since his eyes had already attained that far-away expression I knew all too well. His great mental faculties had obviously turned to a particularly vexing problem, and I had no doubt as to whom the subject of that mental energy would be.

As a consequence, I found I had little appetite for breakfast that morning and asked Mrs. Hudson to bring me tea only. She tutted and fussed in her usual quiet manner, and I found myself smiling slightly to myself, warmed by her concern.

After assuring her that I would call immediately should I change my mind about a "proper breakfast," I sat in my favourite armchair by the fire and pondered my current predicament.

I attempted to utilize Holmes' method of reviewing all the facts and my observations, but the "facts" were far too entangled in emotion to resolve themselves into any kind of solution. Holmes had always said that emotion clouded the mind and dulled the application of logic, and I could at last see the undeniable truth in that statement.

This new knowledge engendered a different concern, however. Holmes' reaction to my injuries had been extreme, especially for him, and I found myself at a loss at how to interpret it. That he cared for me was obvious, but his insistence on discovering the perpetrator of my "injuries" spoke of a motive I was quite unable to name.

Or was afraid to name, because that meant I would hurt him all the more should my relationship with James Moriarty ever come to light.

By noon, after countless cigarettes, an entire pot of tea and still no viable solution, I found myself in a cab heading toward the Pall Mall lodgings of Mr. Mycroft Holmes.

It was a tribute to my own sense of desperation that I undertook this journey at all, as I could not discern any manner in which Holmes' brother could be of assistance with my dilemma, even if I were able to find the courage to confide in him. Perhaps I merely thought that I would not find him at home, and then I could tell James that I had, at least, made the attempt. According to Holmes, his brother maintained an almost excessive adherence to routine, and therefore it was very likely Mycroft was still in his office at this early hour.

I took a deep breath before knocking on the imposing door, trying to calm my overly excited nerves.

A rather stern-faced woman opened the door, examining me carefully before her eyes settled on my cane. "Dr. Watson?" she asked tersely.

"Why, yes, I am John Watson."

She nodded sharply. "Mr. Holmes is expecting you, Dr. Watson. If you would be so kind as to follow me?"

I confess I must have remained frozen on the front stoop for a few seconds, so surprised was I by her announcement. I numbly handed her my hat and coat, and I was glad she made no further attempts at conversation, for I do not believe I was capable of speech at that particular moment.

Unlike his brother, Mycroft Holmes inhabited a suite of rooms entirely on the ground floor of the building. Given his large size and indolent habits (at least according to Sherlock), I found I was not surprised by this fact. After his landlady had announced me, she beckoned me inside the rather expansive sitting room, and I found that Mycroft had most certainly been expecting me.

He was impeccably dressed, as if he were indeed ensconced in his Whitehall office, and other than a smoldering pipe on the sideboard, I had obviously not interrupted him from any task. He rose ponderously to his feet and greeted me at the door, offering one of his beefy hands for a firm handshake.

He peered at me for a few moments, his grey eyes sharpening as they examined me thoroughly, and his gaze was so intense that I felt he could see into my very soul. I must have made an audible sound of my distress at that thought, because he focussed once again on my face.

"Forgive me, Dr. Watson, but that is another bad habit I should make an effort to break."

I smiled weakly. "It is quite all right, Mr. Holmes. I find I am subject to such scrutiny on an almost daily basis, given the identity of my co-lodger."

"Ah, but Sherlock is a great deal more circumspect in such matters than I." He motioned with one hand to a comfortable-looking chair immediately across from his own. "That is why I do not deign to attend social functions. I fear I would be quite the embarrassment to my host, if not an outright travesty."

I sat down more heavily into the chair than I intended. I was quite correct in my predictions on the condition of my muscles and joints from the previous night's events. I was also quite aware that my discomfort did not escape the notice of Mycroft Holmes.

Bolstering my faltering courage, I asked him directly, "How did you know I was coming to see you?"

He sat back deeper into his chair, the wood creaking ominously under his weight. "Is that the question you really wish to ask?"

"I was not aware I had to choose only one."

He chuckled. "I begin to see what Sherlock sees in you, Dr. Watson, and he is a singularly difficult person to impress, I might add." His eyes unfocussed slightly, then he continued, "What did Sherlock tell you of my employment?"

From past experience with his brother, I knew better than to expect a direct answer to my query. "He said you were an auditor of some sort for various government departments."

"Did he now?" He sounded mildly amused.

"He also said you are his superior in intellect and observation."

He nodded, as if seeing no need to elaborate on an obvious fact.

"I always thought it strange that you did not use your amazing powers for something more . . . vital to the government."

"Ah." He leaned forward again, piercing me with a suddenly intense gaze. "How, then, does one determine what is 'vital'?"

"I fear I do not understand your question."

He smiled again, his pale grey eyes brightening. "The most critical component in making deductions, Dr. Watson, is the availability of information. If one does not have all of the facts, it is virtually impossible to determine what is 'vital' and what is of little importance."

"Yes, your brother has mentioned that from time to time."

"Precisely, but therein also lies the major limitation of my younger brother. Sherlock is supremely good at what he does, but his primary focus is on the consequences of crime and misdeeds on a small scale. He limits his observations and deductions to that which has currently ensnared his attention, whereas I . . ." He paused, scrutinizing my face again as if to deem my worthiness. "Whereas I am forced to deal with such deductions on a global scale."

My eyes widened.

"You begin to comprehend, I see. When Sherlock described my government function to you, he was being discreet, in his own way. He believes I am a 'clearing house' for information derived from other departments, that I distill information utilizing all the pertinent facts on hand and then deliver the synopsis of that information to those who require it for national policy. This is, in fact, quite true."

"But it is not the whole truth."

"Very good, Dr. Watson, very good." He smiled at me again. "It would be utterly foolish of me to rely totally on the information gleaned from government bureaucracies. They make their own assumptions based on the facts as they see them, and I am unfortunately not privy to their raw data. Therefore, I maintain my own sources." He paused again. "Outside sources."

I looked at him in amazement. I should have been expecting a revelation of this magnitude, but the thought of exactly who this ponderous-looking man sitting in front of me actually was had shocked me to my core. "Why are you telling me this?" I finally asked softly.

"Because you asked how I knew you were coming." He looked at me intently, almost as if expecting me to make my own deduction based on the available facts.

"James," I said with sudden conviction. "James Moriarty is one of your 'sources'."

He sat back again, looking somehow relieved. "I am impressed, Dr. Watson, although I have been told more than once never to underestimate your intelligence."

My eyes darted away as I attempted to assimilate this new information. Could it be then, that James' criminal activities were merely a cover for this other activity? I looked at Mycroft, but before I could frame my question, he had already answered it.

"No, I am afraid Professor Moriarty is every bit the criminal that you take him to be. I say again, do not doubt your own observations and deductions so quickly, Doctor. The professor and I have been 'acquainted' for some time, and it is quite true that the leopard never changes its spots."

"Then why have you allowed him to continue? Surely his service to you is less important than your duty to have him brought to justice?"

"As it has been for you?" He waved off my stuttering protest with a massive hand. "Let me ask you this instead, Doctor. How many people died during the unfortunate conflict you participated in while in Afghanistan?"

I was quite sure he knew the answer, and I did not see how it applied to our present conversation, but I replied in any case. "It is not known for certain, but I have heard at least 4000, including the Ghazi."

He steepled his fingers together and appeared to study them for some time before speaking again. "Part of my job, Dr. Watson, is to predict the future, as well as predict the probable outcomes of the policies of our government and those of foreign governments." He looked up at me. "Chancellor Bismarck once said that, 'Anyone who has ever looked into the glazed eyes of a soldier dying on the battlefield will think hard before starting a war.' I believe you possess the capacity to agree with that statement?"

I thought back to the horrors of Maiwand and shivered. "To think anything else would make me a fool . . . and a monster."

"Yes, but there are too many in our government, and among the governments of Europe, who have not had that particular vision, nor that epiphany. Far too many."

He was silent for quite some time, as if seeing unspeakable horrors that only he could see, and I found I was reluctant to break into his reverie.

When he finally spoke again, it was in a dull, dark monotone. "Now that Chancellor Bismarck has resigned and Wilhelm II is kaiser of the German Empire, I see many things -- extremely unpleasant things. I see the possibility of a conflict unlike any this world has ever known. I see casualties not in the thousands, but in the millions, possibly even tens of millions. I see death and destruction on a scale that is almost unthinkable, and yet, I must think on it." He looked at me again, his eyes blazing more intently than I had ever seen on his visage. "I am not alone in this perception, Bismarck himself has remarked that, 'One day the great European War will come out of some damned foolish thing in the Balkans', but even he has not imagined the true consequences of such a disastrous event."

I found myself shivering, even in the excessive warmth of his sitting room. It was impossible to deny the prophecies of this man. I had encountered far too many amazing things from his brother to doubt one whom Holmes considered to be his intellectual superior.

"Have I answered your question, Dr. Watson?"

I nodded, understanding the necessity as he saw it. "'The securing of one individual's good is cause for rejoicing, but to secure the good of a nation or of a city-state is nobler and more divine.'"

He smiled, one of those brief upturning of lips that was so characteristic of his brother. "Yes, I believe Aristotle did come to that conclusion first. The end result is that James Moriarty is a necessary evil, Dr. Watson, and while I wish that were not true, he is uncommonly good at what he does."

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. "So the information he provides is gleaned only for money?"

"His motives are his own, but he has a vision and intellect that rival my brother's and mine, and I do believe he sees events on a wider scale than Sherlock. Whether it is from altruism, patriotism, or merely the knowledge that he cannot glean profits from a city that has been destroyed in such a conflict, I do not know."

I understood now why James had insisted I visit Mycroft Holmes, but it left my primary problem unresolved.

"Your brother intends to confront James Moriarty," I said blankly.

"Of course. When Sherlock has a quarry in his sights, he is almost fanatical in his quest to apprehend it."

"They will kill each other!" I said, exasperated by his matter-of-fact tone.

His eyes unfocussed, as if he were calculating the odds, and then he nodded once. "Yes, that would quite probably be the ultimate outcome."

"Can you not tell Sherlock what you have just told me? Surely, if your logic is sound, he would be forced to see that as well."

"Strong emotion affects logic like blinders on a horse, Doctor. It allows you to see clearly in only one direction and to focus only on that directly in front of you. When it comes to you, John Watson, my brother is in no way bound by the strictures of logic." He paused. "Surely you must know Sherlock is in love with you?"

The sudden blanching of my face must have given him his answer. Having that fact confirmed so bluntly hit me like a blow to my solar plexus.

"Ah, I begin to see the problem then. This is indeed unfortunate."

"What do you mean?" I finally gasped out.

"My brother believes you were assaulted in a sexual manner. He knows the individual involved was Professor Moriarty, but he believes you participated in that encounter either through force or through some sort of blackmail. What he does not know -- or more correctly, refuses to see even with the facts displayed so prominently before him -- is that you are in love with James Moriarty as well."

It was fortunate that I was already seated, for I would hate to display such a weakness to Mycroft Holmes by falling in a dead faint upon his sitting room floor.

While to my credit I did not actually lose consciousness, by the time I came properly to my shocked senses, Mycroft Holmes was watching me with some degree of concern from his chair. His expression cleared when my eyes finally met his.

"I do apologize, my good man," he said. "As I have mentioned before, tact and social sensibilities have never been specialties of mine."

"I will not ask how you deduced such things."

"The fact remains that my deductions are sound."

It was not a question.

He sighed. "I will speak to Sherlock and attempt to alter his rather impulsive course of action, but I warn you, Doctor, that I do not hold out much hope. Unless you wish me to inform him of the true state of affairs?"

"Good God, no!"

"Very well, then." He stood up and offered me a hand to help me rise. "To be honest, I do not know if telling Sherlock the entire truth would make the situation better or worse. Emotion of that sort is anathema to me, and I find I cannot predict the result of such a revelation."

I did not immediately release his hand. "If you cannot sway him, I will not allow Sherlock to come to harm. I have not descended so far into self-indulgence that I do not know where my duty lies, whatever the eventuality of your dire visions. The 'needs of the many' may be foremost in your thoughts, but I cannot ignore what is simply morally right."

He walked with me to the door, even lending me a steadying hand until I could get a proper grip on my cane. However, he stopped just before opening the door and turned to face me. "Doctor Watson, you are a most singular man. You have attracted the attention of two of the most brilliant men alive today, yet you have not allowed that significant attraction to alter your path one iota."

I blushed but managed to nod tightly in acknowledgment.

"I shall send you a telegram with the results of my conversation with Sherlock. I wish you all the best." Again that quick upturning of lips. "An honest man is relatively easy to find, but a man who upholds his own principles against unrelenting odds is a rarity indeed. Such men, I have found, often prove to be pivotal in world affairs, whether they wish it or not. Good day to you, Doctor."

**********************

I stepped from Mycroft's home and paused on the front stoop. Under the glowering skies of yet another spring storm, I felt as if I had been transported magically to a foreign country. I remember when I had first alighted from the ship in India and had been bombarded by such an immense variety of new scents, sounds, and sights that I had been both amazed and bewildered. Such was the scope of Mycroft's revelations that I felt a similar disorientation even amidst the staid familiarity of London.

Sherlock Holmes loved me.

Four simple words that when assembled in such a manner seemed almost absurd, yet I dare not doubt that conclusion any longer. James had told me much the same, but I had believed his words tempered by the strength of his own emotions. Hearing such a thing from the nearly emotionless Mycroft Holmes was a different situation altogether.

It was pitiful indeed that I should require the words of an almost perfect stranger to reveal matters of such an intensely personal nature, but I fear I had been willfully blind.

The wind had risen significantly while I was indoors, now almost completely masking the noise of carriages and carts traversing the broad street in front of me. The equally silent figures clutching hats and cloaks as they hurried down the sidewalk made the scene particularly surreal, as if some higher power had arbitrarily stifled the ordinary sounds of the city. It had not managed, however, to silence my own raging thoughts.

I had somehow earned the respect and even love of the brilliant being that was Sherlock Holmes . . . and knew I was destined only to disappoint and horrify him.

I prayed that Mycroft could convince his brother to relinquish his quest against James Moriarty, but I also knew that Mycroft's misgivings were undoubtedly correct. I had lived with Sherlock Holmes far too long to think he would abandon any task after he had set upon it.

Climbing into a brougham loitering by the curb, I called out my Baker Street address to the cabbie. Such was the degree of my distraction that it was several minutes before I realised we were headed in completely the wrong direction.

"Hey there, fellow!" I called, rapping the roof of the cab sharply with my cane. "Baker Street was my destination!"

"There'll be a short detour, Doctor." The voice was muffled by both the cab and the still-raging wind, but I had no difficulty recognizing the measured diction of Sebastian Moran.

Knowing better than to argue, I sat back into the stiff cushion of the seat and waited for the journey to end. My life no longer seemed quite my own. It was difficult to put into words, but I felt as if I had lost control of my own actions -- that I was merely a minor chess piece being arbitrarily positioned by the players of some vast, invisible game. In Mycroft's case, given his recent revelations, it was at least in part the "Great Game," but it left me feeling frustrated and powerless nonetheless.

I shook my head. I should expect nothing less, for such was the price of associating with personalities and intellects as powerful as these three men.

We arrived, as I knew we would, at the West End mansion of James Moriarty. James was waiting by the door, no doubt worried that I would immediately turn and find other transport home upon being released from the brougham.

He need not have worried on that account, for I was so weary and sore that I stumbled merely upon climbing down from the cab. Colonel Moran appeared suddenly and grasped my upper arms in his vise-like grip. Surprisingly, given his now expanded knowledge of my personal preferences, he waited until I had given him an embarrassed nod before releasing me and stepping back.

"John!" James hurried down the long walkway, eyeing me carefully as he approached. "What has happened to you?"

It was only our extended relationship that allowed me to recognize both the concern and the anger in his voice.

I sighed. It was little use attempting to deflect him, but I felt the necessity to try nonetheless. "Nothing," I said, as he steadied me against the wind and half-carried me to the door. "I had a bit of an accident."

"An accident?" He wore no hat, and the incredulous eyebrow creeping upward into his wildly blowing hair was very evident. "You are the medical expert, John, so please tell me how is it possible to have an accident with a garrote?"

I blushed. "If you must know, I fell getting out of the bathtub."

He scrutinized me carefully as we divested ourselves of our outerwear in the foyer. "Yes, that I can see, since there is a contusion and slight swelling over your right occipital lobe, which -- given your inordinately hard skull -- could only be caused by an unplanned contact with enameled cast iron. I further surmise that unless you had a most disagreeable interaction with Mrs. Hudson while in her kitchen, the cast iron was part of a bathtub and not one of her pots." It was a gauge of the depth of his anger that he nearly pulled me along into his sitting room. "I would further inquire as why you were wearing a garrote in the bathtub, if it were not so painfully obvious that the two injuries occurred at a widely disparate interval!"

"Please, James, it is quite unimportant."

"You will kindly allow me to be the judge of that."

His echoing of Holmes' earlier statement caused me to shudder.

James led me to the settee, his expression softening somewhat upon seeing my face. "I am sorry to upset you further, John, but you must understand something very important. The knowledge will inevitably circulate that you are . . . essential to me, and with that knowledge will come an increased personal danger for you. Any overly ambitious individual will think he can influence me through an attack on you, and I must take steps to reduce the chances of such an occurrence."

"This encounter was nothing like that!" I protested.

He nodded. "I believe you. The fact remains that the lesson must be taught, and taught quickly, that no one dare harm that which is mine except at great personal risk."

I shook my head. "No, James. I will not be party to such a thing. I was not permanently injured, and the event was totally random."

He looked at me for a few moments, his grey eyes narrowing, then he sighed. "I did not ask Moran to bring you here so I could fight with you, John."

"Then you will let the incident drop?" I asked.

"I believe you know me better than that, dearest John."

"Yes, I do, and if you love me as you say, you will not kill this man simply because he had the misfortune to choose me as his potential victim."

He sat back against an arm of the settee, shaking his head slightly. "That is part of why I love you, John. Only you would deign to defend someone who could have caused you grievous bodily harm . . . and then issue an ultimatum to me while doing so." He waved off my incipient protest. "No, it is quite all right. I will accede to your wishes on the matter. This time."

Judging by the expression on his face, I felt a change of subject would be prudent. "Mycroft Holmes told me of your professional relationship."

He nodded again. "I was hoping he would entrust you with that knowledge."

"How is it that you know of his actual occupation? Forgive me, James, but I find it difficult to conceive that he would take you totally into his confidence on such a sensitive topic."

He smiled, much like a tiger would. "Because I have my own sources, in our own government as well as many of the continental governments, and that is why he approached me in the first place. The arrangement has been mutually beneficial, and I have found that the acquisition of information is almost as lucrative as more material items." He paused. "And to answer the question that is displayed so clearly on your face, dearest John, it is not solely a monetary exchange. I find the challenge of obtaining sensitive information to be intellectually stimulating, as well as having some personal interest in maintaining the current status quo, as it were. Having to re-establish contacts under the auspices of a conquering government would be such a trial."

I shook my head sadly. "Your sense of patriotism is truly awe inspiring, James."

"You have enough patriotism to encompass both of us, dearest. But that is not why I requested your presence either." He leaned in closer to me, the heat of his body quite apparent through my still chilled clothes.

I saw the predatory look in his eyes and felt myself respond almost immediately. "You are insatiable in all things, James, but I would make one request first."

Another raised eyebrow. "You are being quite aggressive today, John. Speak, then. What is your request?"

"Could we please lock the door this time?"

***********************

Three days later, I received a rather vague telegram from Mycroft Holmes. The response was short, although a little more fanciful than I expected from such a staid fellow as he.

The answer is, unfortunately, as we had both assumed.
Perhaps we are left with no other recourse than to query a soothsayer.
M.H.

I had not yet disposed of the short missive before I heard Sherlock Holmes in the entranceway demanding something from Mrs. Hudson in his usual imperious manner. I hastily folded the telegram and placed it in a pocket. While the message was commendably vague, I had no doubt Holmes would have easily discerned the identify of its sender even without the appended initials.

Holmes looked at me sharply as I greeted him upon his arrival in our sitting room, but he answered me pleasantly enough in kind. He had spent little time at Baker Street these past three days, eating next to nothing and sleeping less, as was his wont during a particularly trying case. He paused only to rid himself of his hat and ulster before seating himself across from me, a newspaper in hand.

He examined me closely, and I tried to keep my gaze steady, dreading the moment when he would reveal all my shameful secrets through his observations and deductions, just as he had for so many others during our shared adventures together.

"Watson, it would appear that I have ascertained the whereabouts of your erstwhile attacker."

My heart leapt into my throat, but I was quite proud of the fact that I did not gasp aloud. "Indeed? And where might that be?"

He eyed me curiously for a few more moments before shaking open the paper in his hand. He read, "'Also among those convicted was Samuel Healey, formerly of her Majesty's Navy, accused of petty larceny, robbery and assault. He was sentenced to 14 years penal servitude, beginning this day.' You might find it interesting, Watson, that I found the name of one Samuel Healey on the roster of a ship bound for the penal colony in the Andaman Islands."

I gasped. "A penal colony! But transportation was outlawed by the Penal Servitude Act. How is that possible?"

"It was outlawed in theory, but we both know that the practice is still observed from time to time." He paused. "Especially if one has managed to rouse the ire of a high-placed official before one's sentencing." He sat back in his chair. "I thought it a singularly peculiar case, in any event."

I had no doubts that Holmes had indeed found the unfortunate man who had attacked me what felt like a lifetime ago. I also knew that the "high-placed official" who had arranged his particularly harsh sentencing had been none other than James Moriarty. He had kept his promise and spared the petty criminal's life. It was a measure of James' own variety of "justice", however, that he had condemned the man to a fate that made one often wish for death instead. There was an excellent reason the practice of transportation had been discontinued, especially to such a wretched place as the Andaman Islands.

And did you expect anything different, John Watson? Such is the price of being the consort of Professor James Moriarty, and you do not even have the right to feel guilty for such an outcome.

"Are you quite all right, Watson?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. It is a bit of a shock, that is all."

Holmes merely nodded, but the intent look on his face spoke volumes. He knew that I had not reported the incident to the police, so he must also know someone other than the local constabulary had arranged for the man's arrest and rapid conviction. I had no doubt it was his investigations into James' affairs that had brought about this revelation of poor Samuel Healey's fate.

I found myself staring at Holmes as he proceeded to reopen the paper and scan its contents. By now, he must have learned of my relationship with James Moriarty. Given Mycroft's estimation of his brother's feelings for me, I could understand why Holmes had not reported me to Scotland Yard for collusion with a known criminal, but why had he not at least accused me of that fact? How could he sit there as usual, reading his newspaper and acting as if everything was perfectly normal?

It made no sense at all, but as I had often encountered in the past, when Holmes did something that was enigmatic to a mere mortal such as I, he usually had a very good reason for doing so. However, such was my current state of suspense and distress, that I nearly asked him outright what he had discovered during these last three days. Given Mycroft's failure to sway his brother's course, there was little else I could think to do.

Holmes scanned the newspaper in his usual cursory manner, stopping only once to read some item or the other more intently, a small smirk lifting his lips. Seemingly bored with the trivialities imparted by the paper, he rolled it up and then stood from his chair.

"I feel as if I am neglecting you of late, my dear Watson, but I'm afraid I have an appointment I must attend."

"Do you have need of my assistance?"

He appeared to consider the matter for a moment, then shook his head firmly. "No, I believe not. The weather is too foul to be traipsing around London if one has a choice, in any case."

"You will at least stay and have luncheon?" It seemed my worry over his extended periods of fasting was still very much in existence, regardless of recent events and my own acute state of mental anxiety.

He was already reaching for his ulster. "No, I fear not. This should not take long, however. I shall see you this evening." With a short, ironic bow, he reached for his hat and was out the door before I could even frame a question as to the nature of his "appointment".

I decided I may as well read the paper before Mrs. Hudson arrived with lunch, but I found, after a brief and fruitless search, that Holmes must have taken it with him. Sighing, I resolved to walk down to the newspaper shop later and pick up another copy.

After a satisfying although admittedly lonely luncheon, there was a brief knock on the door, followed by the bustling figure of Mrs. Hudson.

"Dr. Watson? A note has been delivered for you."

I felt my eyebrows raise in surprise as I rose from my seat, and I took the note from her with an intense feeling of curiosity. Perhaps Holmes had changed his mind about requiring my assistance, after all?

The message, however, was not from Holmes, nor his older brother. It was from a long-time patient of mine, Catherine Highmore, a matronly older lady of excellent breeding whose family had recently fallen upon lean financial times. Her husband was quite ill, she related in a familiar scrawling handwriting, far too ill to travel, and might the good doctor be gracious enough to come to their home as soon as possible?

I sighed. Of course, the good doctor would, but I knew she had recently moved to a more modest residence in South Lambeth, and the distance from Baker Street would require my taking a train.

Perhaps it was for the best, I thought, since the journey might take my mind off my current troubles for a short period of time, at least.

And so I found myself seated in a private compartment, which was the only accommodation available on such appalling short notice. Regardless, I knew that Mrs. Highmore would reimburse me for my travel expenses. While living more frugally than her aristocratic peers due to the infirmity of her increasingly frail husband, she had always paid my fees with alacrity and no complaints. There was little I could do for him, I feared, but it was my impression that she was reassured simply by my presence there.

Reaching in my pocket for my cigarette case, I encountered instead the telegram from Mycroft Holmes. I read the message again, still curious as to the inclusion of the second sentence. 'Perhaps we are left with no other recourse than to query a soothsayer.' I had known Mycroft for only a short time, but he did not seem the sort of man who would waste words on something so meaningless. It was puzzling, to say the least.

Out in the passageway of the carriage, I heard a fellow passenger berating someone most loudly, "No, no, no! I asked for today's paper, the fifteenth. This is yesterday's paper, you bloody fool!"

I tended not to keep track of the passing days myself, even if I were in a sound frame of mind, so I felt a degree of sympathy for the hapless porter forgetting the current date. One could certainly not tell from the ghastly weather that it was already the middle of March.

My breath froze in mid exhalation as my hapless brain finally made the connection that it should have made at the very first. Damn it all! I was not so underprivileged that I did not possess a sound classical education. It was the fifteenth of March -- the ides of March -- and Mycroft's telegram had contained a second message after all. His offhand comment about the soothsayer was a warning, all that he dare give with his exalted position in the government, as well as risking the ire of his only brother by divulging his plans.

I blanched, knowing now that the timely message from Mrs. Highmore was not from my patient at all. Holmes was a clever forger, among his many other talents.

Hurrying to the door of my compartment, I flung it open and demanded papers from both today and yesterday. Shoving some money at the wide-eyed porter, and ignoring the spluttering gentleman who had first accosted him, I grabbed the proffered papers and retreated to my compartment.

It was not long before I found the first message in the personal column of yesterday's paper.

J.M.:
There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If you desire an end to this as much as I, meet me tomorrow at a place of your choosing. I await your reply in this column.
S.H.

The reply in today's newspaper was shorter still.

I agree. The readiness is all. The twin asteroids collide at last. I shall await you at 5:00 p.m., at the obvious place.
J.M.

I hastily pulled out my watch and grimaced. It was already nearly 4:00 p.m., so I had precious little time to intercept their meeting. What was more, I had no clue as to what "the obvious place" was. It would be neither Baker Street nor James' residence. It would have to be some neutral ground, but where? The quotes were again from Shakespeare, Hamlet this time, but I could discern no particular significance from the quotations other than that. London had never felt so large, nor my own capacity to follow the genius of these two antagonists so small.

Although I did not yet know where the meeting place was, I knew it was definitely not in the direction I was currently headed. I looked out the window and saw we had not yet crossed the Thames. If I moved quickly enough, I could get off the train at the Ludgate Hill station. Once I had decided on a destination, I could simply take a cab from there.

The door opened suddenly as I approached it, without so much as a knock, and I was not surprised to see my erstwhile shadow, Sebastian Moran.

"Good afternoon, Doctor," he said pleasantly, while at the same time grasping my elbow in an iron grip. He guided me firmly to sit down but released my arm promptly once I remained seated. His pose was casual, but I could tell from long experience that he was tensed to move suddenly, if necessary. And I knew he could move very, very quickly indeed.

In no mood for idle conversation, I asked him sharply, "When did you cease being James' bodyguard and begin being my jailer?"

"Jailer? Doctor, correct me if I am wrong, but this excursion appeared to be your own decision."

"So if I decide to depart at this station, you will not impede me?"

A raised eyebrow was my only answer, but it told me all I needed to know.

"James might very likely die within the next hour! Why are you here with me instead of defending him?"

His cold eyes watched me expressionlessly. "Because your life is more important." He paused, as if surprised by what he had said, and added, "I have been instructed to protect you from harm. The professor expected you to object, rather strongly."

I suddenly found I had grown tired of what others expected of me. "You told me long ago, after you had taught me to shoot, that I was no longer in need of protection. Yet both you and James have suddenly decided I need cosseting. Is it because I was wounded in Afghanistan?"

He shook his head slightly, and then a very rare smile twitched his lips upward. "A wounded tiger is always more dangerous, not less."

I glared at him. "Where are they meeting?"

"I cannot tell you that."

"Cannot, or will not?"

"Does it make a difference?" He sounded genuinely curious.

I didn't bother to answer him, instead attempting to ponder a way out of my current dilemma. I had foolishly not brought my revolver on this supposed mission of mercy. It was obvious that Moran had been sent to make sure I was far from the upcoming confrontation, but how much force had he been authorised to use against me? How desperate would James expect me to be?

Expectations. It always came down to expectations.

So what if I did the totally unexpected?

I had unconsciously stilled at the thought, and Moran the hunter must have sensed something was amiss. He grasped my arm firmly again, but as the train lurched back into motion upon leaving the station, I did not attempt to break his hold.

Instead, I turned toward him, and grabbing his face firmly with my free hand, I kissed him solidly and passionately on his mouth.

It was cowardly. It was immoral. It was an utterly reprehensible action on my part.

But it worked.

He gasped beneath me, and I will never know whether it was from mere surprise or revulsion, but his grip on my arm loosened suddenly. I arched backwards and kneed him as hard as I could in the solar plexus, then followed through with a solid blow to the side of his face.

I did not stay to see if I had rendered him unconscious. For a task as important as this, I knew that Moran would not be the only minion of James Moriarty aboard this train. They would no doubt have all the exit points guarded, and even if I had managed to incapacitate Moran long enough to reach the next station, I would not get off this train in an "expected" manner.

That left only the unexpected.

Other than Moran, I knew the faces of only a few of James' men. I therefore had to move slower than I would have liked to avoid possible detection, and the train had almost completed the crossing of Blackfriars Bridge before I could get into position.

I prayed Moran was correct in his supposition about wounded tigers, because I was quite certain the train was not moving slowly enough to escape injury.

But I jumped anyway.

**********************

I regained consciousness to find a small, grubby hand gripping my shoulder.

"Cor, guv'nor! I thought you was a goner fer sure!"

I blinked muzzily, attempting without a great deal of success to clear my vision. Concussion then, at the very least, but at least I had survived the experience.

If the train had not slowed in order to pass through the Blackfriars goods depot, I may not have.

I was lying on my back at the far end of a derelict passenger platform. As my wits coalesced into more coherent thought, I attempted to catalogue my injuries. Unfortunately, everything seemed to hurt, including another impressive array of scrapes and impending bruises, but it was my right ankle and head that seemed to be clamouring the loudest for attention.

Physician, heal thyself would have to wait until the physician was more than just semiconscious.

The owner of the grubby hand turned out to be an equally grubby boy of about ten, although his true age was difficult to gauge since his face disappeared almost completely into a hat that was at least two sizes too large for him. He had a roll of paper and a small tack hammer tucked under one arm.

There was a goods train occupying the far set of tracks, blocking my view of most of the station, but the other set of tracks was conspicuously empty. There was absolutely no sign of the train I had so precipitously departed.

"You all right then, Mister?"

Ignoring the persistent voice for the moment, I anxiously pulled out my watch and discovered that I had been unconscious for only fifteen minutes. Long enough, however.

There were sounds of activity on the far side of the goods train, which was no doubt in the process of unloading, but no other soul in sight. I looked at my would-be saviour in bemusement. "You haven't gone for help yet, boy?"

He stared at me as if I were daft. "I saw what you did as I was crossin' the bridge. You jumped from a train, Mister. I didn't think you'd want me callin' no policeman."

"You think me a criminal, then?"

He cocked his head to one side. "You wasn't chasin' no one, you wasn't pushed, and you didn't fall. That leaves only one thing, don't it?"

I smiled in spite of myself. "Perhaps I was running from a criminal."

"Then why not find a porter or guard to help ya?"

Heaven forbid if I hadn't run across a miniature Sherlock Holmes. "Let's just say I had my reasons for running from the criminals rather than staying on the train. Now, would you be so kind as to summon me a cab?"

The boy looked down at me, a slight frown on his face.

"What is the matter now?" I asked him, when he didn't seem inclined to move.

"The ones runnin' from the law pays better."

Sighing, I reached into my pocket and gave him a shilling.

With a bright smile, he accepted his booty, set down his roll of paper and hammer, and ran off toward the sounds of traffic on the adjacent street.

Sitting up, I found that my cane had survived my abrupt departure from the train, and I used it to clamber inelegantly to my feet. As I put a tentative amount of weight on my right foot, I found that the ankle was indeed very badly sprained.

When I turned, I forgot my injuries entirely as I looked incredulously at the platform behind me.

The boy might be a miniature Sherlock Holmes after all, albeit unbeknownst to him. He had evidently been employed to post playbills before detouring to "rescue" me. The playbills were from the Globe Theatre on Newcastle Street, which I knew to have an adjacent sister theatre, the Opera Comique. Although I had attended neither of these theatres myself, a friend had regaled me with tales of the dubious construction of these buildings, earning them the nickname of "The Rickety Twins". The playbill announced the reopening of the Globe Theatre five days hence following renovations.

The forthcoming play was a production of Hamlet.

**********************

It seemed Providence was with me yet again, since I had departed the train close enough to the location of the theatre that I could still make the meeting on time if the boy did not dawdle. When I eventually hobbled out of the station, the hansom cab already waiting for me was a welcome sight.

As I alighted painfully from the cab nearly a half hour later, I noticed very little activity around the theatre itself, so evidently whatever workmen were employed in its renovation had long since departed for dinner and a pint. The entrance from Newcastle Street was locked, and I had neither Holmes' lock picks nor his skill in their usage to effect an entrance there. Luckily, one of the access doors from Wych Street was unbarred, and I made my way down a steep, narrow flight of stairs into the immense theatre.

No lamps were lit, of course, but a diffuse light illuminated most of the auditorium via a huge glass skylight in the domed roof. The floor was littered with a flotsam of wood shards and plaster, and it smelled faintly of sawdust overlying the lingering miasma of large numbers of people occupying a poorly designed and poorly maintained structure. The "renovations", it seemed, were to be primarily cosmetic in nature.

Given the lateness of the hour and the overcast sky, the light was understandably dim, but it was enough for me to discern two tall figures facing each other across the breadth of the raised stage. They seemed almost a part of the decorative act-drop behind them, as neither man moved nor spoke in the eerie silence. I do not know how long they had remained thus, nor what words, if any, they had exchanged prior to my arrival at the theatre, but it appeared the scene was about to reach its climax.

At first, I thought it a mere illusion -- swirling dust motes mimicking motion, like breeze-borne shadows in a twilight fog -- but it soon became apparent the movement was real. Two arms raised ever so slowly in perfect synchrony from opposing points at the proscenium, and I could easily discern the barrels of two revolvers held in equally steady hands.

I knew if I spoke now, I would shatter the tableau in a manner that would bring to fruition the nightmares I had dreamt these many nights past. So instead, I merely walked toward the stage, not bothering to mask the sound of my cane, which I applied with more force than usual given my injured ankle. It resounded harshly against the poorly sprung floorboards, echoing like the beat of a single drum expelling a disgraced officer from his regiment.

In my particular case, it seemed an appallingly apt comparison.

However, I had long since passed from guilt to worry to despair, and now I could muster only an all-encompassing anger. That these two men of such fearsome intelligence could find no other method to resolve their differences than to annihilate each other was a travesty of the gravest sort. I shall admit my feelings were not merely due to the loss of their combined intellect to mankind, but my own personal interest in not losing the two men whom I loved like no others.

Both heads turned toward me as I approached the stage. Although I was attired in rain-soaked, tattered clothes, I must have appeared out of the gloom much like the ghost of Hamlet's father, with an equally fearsome expression on my face. I did not disabuse them of that notion, for I was very angry indeed.

I climbed via the apron onto the stage and did not stop until I stood directly between the two men. If they were so bent on killing each other, they would have to kill me first.

The end result would be the same, even without the bullets through my chest.

They both looked upon me in astonishment, lowering their revolvers, but it was James who finally said, "John! Dear God, what has happened to you?"

I turned to him and said with the utmost irony, "I departed from the train before it had come to a complete stop. The train, I might add, that you made certain I could not leave in the established manner."

James actually stepped back from the vehemence in my voice.

"And you," I said, facing Holmes. "You did not have the right to mislead me into boarding that train in the first place, whether it was 'for my own good', or not."

"Watson," he said calmly. "I find I cannot apologize for my actions. Whether this confrontation occurs now or at some point in the future, it will still take place. Neither one of us can change our paths."

Holmes had accused me many times of approaching a problem from the wrong direction, and it suddenly become apparent such was the case again. The solution was almost painfully obvious, and yet I had missed it all along.

If these two men refused to modify their orbits around me, then it was I who must change orbits instead.

Even the seemingly immutable sun traveled its own path through the heavens.

I turned to James. "You have said that as long as I remain in London, that this is where you shall stay."

He nodded. "Of course."

"And if I should decide to leave London -- permanently?"

James bowed to me, a broad smile upon his face. "Then I shall, of course, accompany you."

"Watson!"

Holmes stepped toward me as he spoke, but I held up my hand to stay him. "No, Holmes, you know this is for the best. England will be rid of its 'criminal mastermind', and you no longer need risk your life to accomplish it. I trust, in this manner, you shall both have what you want."

"And what about you, Watson? Will you have 'what you want'?"

I sighed. "No man can have all that he wants, Holmes."

His glare seemed to soften somewhat, and he said, "I wish to speak with you, Watson." He looked pointedly at James. "Alone."

"It will accomplish nothing, Holmes. I have made up my mind."

"Then it shall accomplish nothing, but in my estimation, you are indebted to me." He inclined his head sharply. "If nothing else, for the fact that I shall now have to search for another flatmate."

It was odd that his comment should hurt as much as it did, since it was I who had made the decision in the first place. I glanced over at James, but he was glaring fiercely at Holmes and I could not catch his eye.

Holmes merely nodded his head at James, the epitome of noblesse oblige. "I give you my word," he said.

James seemed to comprehend Holmes' enigmatic statement, as his tense posture relaxed somewhat. He gave Holmes a short bow. "Your word is accepted. As it turns out, I can afford to be magnanimous." He gave me one of his most luminous smiles. "I shall await you outside, dearest John."

He stepped from the stage and walked down the littered aisle toward the exit. It was not long before he had disappeared entirely into the gloom of encroaching dusk as it enveloped the interior of the Globe, but I did not doubt that James would wait where he had indicated.

As he had said, he could afford to be generous and allow Holmes and I this time alone.

Feeling the need to alleviate the distance that had arisen between us, and not simply a physical distance, I approached Holmes as closely as I dared. I did not wish our last meeting to be as two estranged actors upon a lonely stage.

Once we were close enough to touch, I asked the question that had preyed most upon my mind. "How long have you known?"

"How long have I known, or how long have I allowed myself to believe?" His eyes flashed in the dying light. "Trust me, Watson, they are two entirely different concerns."

"You have known from the beginning, then."

"Again, my dear Watson, you give me more credit than I deserve. I knew immediately who was responsible for your original 'injuries', of course, but I chose not to believe the facts at hand -- facts that indicated those attentions were neither forced nor the result of some other form of duress." He inhaled sharply. "A fallacy which my brother has obliquely accused me of harbouring for reasons other than the sound application of logic."

"Holmes, I am sorry to have kept such a ghastly secret from you, but you must believe that I have had no contact with James until the night you first mentioned him to me."

He took another deep breath. "Ah, I thought as much. So I am at least partly to blame for the situation as it now prevails."

"No!" I said vehemently. "You are not to blame for any of this. It is my failing, my immorality, and my decision to consort with a known criminal!" I saw his eyes widen, and I completed my confession. "Yes, I knew what James was long before you first encountered his criminal network, Holmes. I knew even before I could append initials to my name, and I did nothing, said nothing. You should feel nothing but contempt for me!"

He smiled. "I believe you know that 'contempt' has nothing to do with what I feel for you."

I crossed both hands over the top of my cane and bowed my head. "I dare say, Holmes, you are more important to me than I could have ever imagined when I first took lodgings with you. Doubtless, our relationship would have become much more had I not happened to meet James first."

"Ah, yes. You are an honourable man, Watson, so I know that you would never contemplate another relationship while the current one is ongoing. However, common sense dictates that it is rarely the first relationship that is the most important, but the one you undertake last." He closed the remaining distance between us and placed his hands on top of mine. "Watson, John, I fear you will regret this decision. I do not believe he can corrupt your soul to match his, but surely you are not under the misconception that you can change him?"

"No, but perhaps I will be able to . . . mitigate his excesses."

"And you actually believe he will allow this?" Holmes' voice was aghast.

I shook my head. "Holmes, whether I believe it or not, the fact remains that I must try."

"Watson, you are far nobler in spirit than any man I have ever known, but I believe he will cause your conscience such distress that you will never again be the John Watson I have come to know . . . and love. You must understand that I do not give up easily, nor can I allow you to make this monstrous mistake alone."

I pulled away from him when his meaning became clear. "Holmes, don't do this. You must permit me to make this decision, whether it be a mistake or not." I looked into his eyes imploringly. "Do you know why I am willing to abandon everything I have known in London and leave with him now? It is not from some misplaced sense of duty or sacrifice. It is because so many years ago, when my conscience could no longer abide the situation, when I needed to make a new life for myself without him, he let me go."

He smiled, a gentle, self-mocking smile. "Then I fear he is a better man than I."

"Holmes. . . ."

"No, say no more, my dear Watson." He reached out and cupped my face. "We must simply agree to disagree. And now I believe I shall break my word, at least in some small measure."

With that, he leaned forward and kissed me, first on both cheeks in the French manner, and then less chastely on my mouth. It was neither tentative nor passionate, but contained all the bittersweet sadness of experiencing the last perfect day of autumn before the pitiless winds of a desolate winter.

I could not look him in the eye as I turned to go, but I did stop before leaving the stage to say, "Good-bye, Sherlock."

There was a pause, then, "Au revoir, John."

**********************

I blinked as I left the darkness of the theatre onto the nearly deserted street. I swear it was the relative increase in brightness that caused my eyes to tear up and not the result of any sort of emotion. I could no longer afford that particular luxury.

James was indeed waiting for me, solicitously gripping my arm when I stumbled upon the steps of the ramshackle entranceway. My ankle was swollen and throbbing now, and I wanted nothing more than to take the weight off both wretched limbs.

"Come, John, I have a cab waiting around the corner."

I allowed myself to be led, especially since he was careful to diminish his normally much longer stride to accommodate my latest set of injuries. He was nearly bouncing in his exuberance; however, and although I could not match my mood to his, it was somewhat comforting to know that I was the source of his good spirits.

After he had assisted me into the cab, he sat down beside me and gripped my hand. "Where shall we go, dearest?"

I raised an eyebrow at him, and said teasingly, "Given your usual appetites following such a victory, your residence would probably be most appropriate. I still have no desire to flaunt myself before Parliament."

He smiled broadly at me, a smile which eradicated years from his apparent age and made one forget, temporarily at least, the deeds this man was truly capable of. "While I appreciate the sentiment, you are in no condition -- and in no mood, given recent events -- to engage in such activities, as you well know."

I looked up at him in shock. This man would kill another in a blink of an eye, had woven a criminal organization that would take Scotland Yard years to unravel even without its creator at the reins, but he could still display such compassion and sensitivity that never failed to take my breath away. I could say nothing other than, "Thank you," which earned me yet another smile.

He sat back in the seat, one hand massaging his chin as he pondered some matter or the other. After a few minutes had passed with only the sounds of the horse's hooves and the incessant rain upon the roof of the carriage, he said, "We should be able to depart within the week. Prussia, I should think."

"Prussia?" I repeated incredulously. "I thought your organization was strongest in France, at least on the continent."

"Oh, it is," he said. "But it seems I owe a favour or two to Mycroft Holmes, and that is the best location from which to pay those debts. Besides, you of all people know how much I adore a . . . challenge."

His raised eyebrow and leering glance made me laugh in spite of myself.

"However," he continued, leaning closer toward me, "since you have proven more of a challenge than I had anticipated, it would be useful to know exactly what you have done with my hapless second-in-command."

I blushed. "Uhm, yes," I finally said. "I suppose it is not possible to leave for Prussia earlier, perhaps . . . immediately?"

The sound of his laughter purged a great deal of disquiet from my soul.

***end***