Chapter XVIII

---

A Scandal Averted

* 1909 Rolls Royce
On a warm August evening in 1912 Holmes and I drove once more to Harold's villa in Kent where we had spent so many wonderful weekends.  Mycroft, of course, still occupied his time there every weekend, ostensibly playing chess with his old friend, before returning to his lodgings in London on the Sunday evening.  Both Harold and Mycroft had long retired from public service but, for the sake of propriety, they kept up the pretence of being keen chess opponents.  However, as time went by and Harold's health began to fail Mycroft grew increasingly loathe to leave him on the Sunday evening.

On our previous visit I was most concerned for Harold's health.  His unnatural pallor and occasional gasps for breath did not bode well and I urged him to see his own doctor.  Mycroft, too, had been most anxious about Harold and had spoken to me privately about it.  However, I was not Harold's doctor and he refused to allow me to examine him, nor was it my place to.  Even so, it would have been a dimwitted fool who could not see what ailed him.  Indeed so obvious were the symptoms that a medical student in his first year would have recognised them for what they were - heart failure.

When Mycroft telephoned us yesterday evening to invite us to Kent he had sounded quite his normal self - and yet I was deeply concerned for the state of his dear friend's health as, I am sure, was Holmes, though I said nothing of my fears to him lest I should worry him unnecessarily.  Now, as we neared our destination, I wondered in what condition we would find Harold.  I had brought my medical bag, obvious though it was, just in case I was needed.  Holmes, of course, noticed it but made no comment.

The weather was overcast and threatening and matched my mood on the long drive.  Holmes sat silently beside me saying almost nothing.  In the back of our minds was the thought that this could possibly be one of the last times that we drove this so-familiar route to the outskirts of Kent.

When we arrived at Willow Grove we were greeted cheerfully by Mycroft, however, all was far from normal.  It was immediately obvious to me that Harold's condition had deteriorated markedly from our last visit three weeks ago and I resolved to speak to him after dinner.  Mycroft assured me that he would endeavour to persuade Harold to let me examine him.  I also noticed that Harold had lost approximately a stone in weight since we had last seen him and this made me doubly concerned.

After dinner a serious discussion ensued between Mycroft and Harold over whether Harold would allow me to examine him.  In the end it was Mycroft who prevailed and Harold, with a little persuasion from myself and Holmes, allowed me to examine him alone in his upstairs bed chamber.

Seldom had I had call to enter this room previously, but as I entered, it suddenly came to me that this was the room - and the bed, a gigantic and ornate four-poster - that Harold shared with Mycroft every weekend.  But for how much longer? I wondered.

After Harold had undressed I took my time, examining him thoroughly.

Unfortunately, my diagnosis was as I had suspected - heart disease, which would very shortly kill him.  Even in this modern age there was no cure for it.  Hopefully, in the future more learned men than I will be able to cure this ailment and thus allow many people to live longer healthy lives.

As gently as possible I informed Harold that he should be in hospital in order that he could receive proper care, but he insisted that if he was going to die, then he would not die in hospital, but rather with dignity in the home that he shared with Mycroft.  He also insisted that his own physician as well as a Harley Street specialist had told him precisely the same thing.

It was no use arguing and, needless to say, I could not blame Harold for wanting to end his life with dignity in his own home - after all there was little or nothing a hospital could do for him.  However, he obstinately insisted that he did not want to worry Mycroft needlessly, never the less I maintained that Mycroft had to be told, and without delay.  Eventually I extracted a promise from him to tell Mycroft that evening.

That evening, although the rain held off, for the first time we did not go for an evening stroll as Harold was far too unwell.  Mrs. Galston, who was like a mother to all of us, was fussing over him.  He did, however, sit on the porch with us and enjoy the sunset, a truly glorious one in shades of golds, oranges, reds, pinks and purples.

Gasping for breath and too unwell to play bridge, he none the less sat with us, occasionally nodding and asking questions as Holmes regaled us with a tale of one of his unfinished cases and we discussed how it might eventually be resolved at some time in the future.

Later, Mycroft and I helped Harold to slowly ascend the stairs but Mycroft insisted that they would be able to manage on their own after that so I returned downstairs to a much worried Holmes.

He gazed up the stairs in the direction of the master bedroom.  "How long?"  He turned to me, his face stricken.  "How long will Harold live?"  I shook my head.  There was simply no way of knowing.  "You mean he could...  die tonight?"

"Very possibly."

A half hour later Mycroft called down to Holmes and beckoned him to come upstairs.  Some ten minutes later I, too, received a similar summons.  As I entered the bedroom, I beheld Mycroft sitting on a chair by the bed and Holmes sitting on the far side of the bed holding Harold's hand in both of his own.

"Ah, there you are, John!" Harold gasped cheerfully.  "I was just telling Sherlock here that I should have had you for my physician!  For one thing, your hands are warm; for another, you truly care."  He patted the other side of the bed.  "Well, don't just stand there, John, come and sit down!"

As Harold gave me his free hand, I grasped it firmly in both of my own and perched on the opposite side of the bed from Holmes.  However, I was unable to prevent myself from letting my thumb slide higher in order to feel his pulse.  It was weak and uneven.

"Dear friends," Harold began, "like Mycroft and myself, you have sacrificed much for queen and country and you have righted many of the wrongs of this world.  I know that God will not forget that.  Certainly I know that I never will."  He turned to me.  "Mycroft and I led a rather solitary existence rattling around this place on our own every weekend for more than a decade until the night that Sherlock brought you here, John.  That remarkable night changed our lives so much," he turned to Mycroft, "did it not, my dear?"

"Heavens, yes!" Mycroft agreed.  "We came to look forward to the weekends that you could visit with us.  My little brother and his very special friend brought so much colour and variety into our hitherto retiring existence, especially in later years."

"Oh, yes, indeed!" Harold enthused.  "I will never forget the time we caught you two, sans apparel, under our favourite tree."

In complete dismay, I stared at Holmes, and he at me.  "Your...  favourite tree?" I ventured, appalled.

"Oh, indeed!" Mycroft remarked.  "That was always our favourite tree from the time Harold bought this place.  Why we even renamed the place after the tree.  Its former name was Horseshoe Lodge, you know, after the lake," he continued blithely.

I winced, mortified that Holmes and I had inconvenienced our hosts in so inappropriate a manner as to commandeer their favourite willow tree for salacious pursuits and not even realise it, for I was equally sure from the chagrined expression on Holmes's face that he, too, had been quite unaware of our unwitting offence.

"Harold, Mycroft, we apologise unreservedly for appropriating your tree..." Holmes began.

"Absolutely!" I agreed.

"...and most humbly beg your forgiveness."

"Oh, come, come, you two!" Harold admonished.  "We didn't mind in the least, did we, my dear?"

"Oh, goodness me, no!" Mycroft agreed.  "Actually we found it quite amusing.  You know, great minds truly do seem to think alike."

Harold chuckled.  "Besides, there were many fine weekends when you did not come to visit."

"Quite right, my dear!" Mycroft concurred.

Still, I felt highly embarrassed.  "But you never said anything."

"Oh, pish tosh!" Harold muttered.  "And spoil your merry little frolics?  Never!  And they were merry, were they not?"  He peered slyly from Holmes to myself.

My face felt hot and I was sure that I was blushing with sheer mortification, however, before Holmes or I could utter a word, Mycroft interjected, "Harold, you are embarrassing Sherlock and John!"

"Of course!  It's quite wicked of me, is it not?"

"Harold, you are incorrigible!" Mycroft accused.

"I always have been.  It's what you love about me!" Harold avowed in spirited manner.

"Huh!"

Holmes briefly gazed at me before turning once more to Harold and Mycroft.  "Harold, Mycroft, please forgive us our transgressions.  Had we but known that it was ‘your' tree I can assure you that we would never have dreamt of trespassing..."

"Tut, we'll have no more of that, Sherlock!" Mycroft interjected.  "We both forgive you unreservedly," he glared at Harold, "don't we, my dear?"

"Absolutely!" Harold agreed.  "Now no more of that!"  His expression became serious as he gazed from Holmes to myself.  "You two have served your country nobly.  Mere gratitude can never repay you for the work you have done and the sacrifices you both have made for the sake of your country."  His eyes misted over then and he glanced at Mycroft.  "We love you both so very much."  He squeezed my hand and pulled me down to kiss my forehead as though in benediction, then unexpectedly he twisted slightly and whispered in my ear, "Take care of Mycroft for me!"  I nodded at him, my own eyes misted, as he then kissed Holmes on the forehead.  "Dear Sherlock and John, where would this country be without men like you!  God bless you and keep you, my dears," he whispered, his voice barely more than a croak.

As one, Holmes and I leaned down and kissed his cheeks.  "Oh, you dear, dear boys!" he gasped and returned our kisses.

As we pulled back, Holmes gazed at me, stricken.  He had not the words to express his feelings, so I spoke for both of us.  I did not offer meaningless platitudes - we all knew that Harold was dying - so I spoke from the heart, trying to convey in words all that he had meant to us over the years.

"What you and Mycroft have given for your country is above and far beyond the call of duty," I began.  "The personal sacrifices you both have made are inconceivable to most people and the debt of gratitude your country owes you will never be known, and can not be measured..." I glanced at Holmes "...nor can our love for you."  Holmes nodded.  "As we all know too well, people like us who have the most special of partners," I glanced fondly at Holmes and he at me, "are regarded by society in less than favourable terms, therefore your friendship, your trust and your hospitality mean everything to us.  The freedom we have known here at Willow Grove - freedom to just be ourselves - is beyond measure.  It is we who owe you our thanks for the laughter, the games, the lively conversations and discussions that stretched far into the night, the wonderful meals, the lake and the lovely gardens..."

"Not forgetting the willow tree!" Mycroft interjected.

Holmes and I glanced at each other and smiled.

Holmes gazed from Harold to Mycroft.  "We will never forget the willow tree," he stated with quiet sincerity.

"Never!" I echoed.  "You opened up your home to us and entrusted us with your secret, as we entrusted you with ours.  We knew that our trust would never be betrayed.  Our faith in you both is unshakeable.  Our love for you both, beyond measure."

Harold's tears spilled over then and Holmes took out his handkerchief and tenderly dabbed at them.  "My dears!" Harold whispered, squeezing our hands.  Choked with emotion, he remained silent, and we allowed him his dignity.  After a while he rasped, "My dears, my soul is at peace.  I will bid you good-night now."

Mycroft saw us to the door and I admonished him to call me at any time during the night if he needed me.

It was with heavy hearts that we left the room.  We were both very much aware that Harold had virtually said goodbye to us and, since he had felt the need to say farewell, then he must surely believe that he would not last until morning.

Later, as I lay beside Holmes in the same bed that we had shared on so many occasions since that momentous evening when he had returned to me back in ‘91, I spent a long time contemplating my own mortality and wondering how I would eventually die when my time came.  And what of my dear one?  How would he die?

Holmes, too, was awake, lying quietly beside me in the darkness.  Which of us would go first while the other was left alone to bury him and mourn his passing?  I was the elder, I thought morosely.  If I were to go first I would not want to leave behind my dear one to live in lonely solitude, perhaps for years, missing me, as indeed I would miss him were our positions reversed.  Worse still, without me, Holmes might once again resort to using cocaine and morphine as he did when he was in Europe.  Death came to everyone, did it not?  And we all mourned and somehow most of us survived the passing of a loved one.  But would I even want to go on living if my dear Holmes was dead?

The answer to that was an emphatic and resounding no!  We were too close, our lives too interwoven one with the other for too many years.  I loved my darling Holmes so very dearly that to part with him would be unbearable agony, twenty times worse than it had been back in ‘91 when he had supposedly died.  I also knew, without false modesty, of my own value to my dear one and of how very much he needed me.

Holmes reached out to me and I took his hand in the darkness, our fingers intertwining, and I contemplated how our intertwined fingers symbolised the interweaving of our lives.  We were like two trees planted side by side whose roots and branches had grown together to such an extent over the years that they were totally entangled and to cut away one would be impossible without killing the other.

A singularly appropriate analogy, I thought despondently.  And what of Mycroft and Harold?  They were in the same boat, were they not?

Right then and there I made a decision.  I squeezed my beloved's hand and, closing my eyes, I prayed to God that we might be allowed to somehow die together so that neither one of us would be left forsaken and bereft to grieve and languish in a lonely old age.  Who really knew what lay beyond death?  We would find out when the time came.  For now, all I asked was that my dearest companion and I be allowed to die together as we had lived together - with dignity and respect and, most of all, with joy in our hearts, not sorrow.

As always, my dear one knew my thoughts for, without warning, he pulled me close.  He said nothing, merely stroked me and rocked me a little before resting his head on my breast.

He was listening to my heartbeat, I realised, as I ran my fingers through the thick softness of his hair.  He was worried that one day I would die on him, perhaps of a heart attack while in my sleep.

"It is strong, my love," I whispered, reassuring him of my good health.  "My heart is strong, and it beats for you."

"Forgive me, my love," he murmured.

"For what?" I asked.

"For being maudlin.  I have no right."

I shook my head.  "Sherlock, we all have the right to be maudlin once in a while.  Just don't make a habit of it!" I mock-chastised him.

My strategy worked for he muttered, "Hah!  No chance of that, my boy!"

In the dimness I raised his face to mine so that our lips could meet in tender solicitude whilst our hands conveyed the depth of our affection in gentle strokes and soft pats.

The comfort of each other's presence was sufficient to bring us the serenity that our souls craved.  Holmes eventually fell asleep in my arms.  I, however, lay awake for some time before finally dozing off, lulled by the gentle rhythm of his breathing and his familiar and much-loved scent.

The fateful events of the following morning will always be with me for it was one of the saddest days of my life - indeed of both our lives.

Wondering if Mycroft would need my services during the night, I got little sleep.  Around dawn I was awoken by Holmes tossing and turning, apparently in the throes of a nightmare.

As I called his name to wake him he at first did not respond and indeed began to moan a little.  I shook him gently.  "Holmes, wake up!  Wake up, my dearest!" I grasped his hands and held them as of a sudden his eyes opened and he stared at me.

"What is it?  What did you dream?"

He shook his head.  "It was only a dream but...  it seemed so real..."

"What was it?"

"I dreamt...  I dreamt that Mycroft died."

"Mycroft!" I exclaimed, appalled at the notion that Holmes's brother might die soon as well as his dear friend.  "But why should Mycroft die?  I examined him only a month ago and his health is reasonable for a man his age.  I do not believe him to be in any current danger of either a heart attack or seizure."

"But it seemed so real..."  He sighed.  Abruptly he came to a decision.  "Quickly, my dear.  I must know that they are both all right."

Even as he spoke he jumped out of bed and put on his dressing gown whilst I did the same.  As we hurried across to the far side of the landing I vaguely noted that the clock on the landing said ten past five in the a.m.

There were no sounds.  Nothing disturbed the peace of the house at this early hour.  Holmes went to the door of the master bedroom and listened keenly as I tiptoed over to stand beside him, both of us in our bare feet.

No sound emerged from within and Holmes bent down to look through the keyhole, shaking his head in frustration at being unable to see anything within due to the key being in the lock.  He knocked softly and tried the door handle, to no avail - the door was locked.

He began to knock loudly on it, calling out to Mycroft and Harold.  There was still no sound from within.  Gazing at each other, Holmes and I were horrified by the implications.  But then we heard a sound - faint, muffled, but there none the less; the sound as of someone in great pain.

"Mycroft!" Holmes called.  "Mycroft, open the door!"

We heard faint sounds of movement from within, followed by the sounds of slowly shuffling feet.  Eventually the key was turned in the lock and the door opened to reveal a harrowing sight indeed.

Dishevelled and in his nightshirt, Mycroft Holmes was a sorry sight.  Red-eyed and with tracks of tears streaking his face, he silently admitted us.  I told Holmes to stay by the door while I went to check on Harold, although what I would find was more than apparent from Mycroft's despair.

It was obvious from my first glance at Harold that he was quite dead and that it had happened very recently.  I could only conclude that the heart attack that I had feared had killed him.  None the less I went through the motions of checking for pulse and respiration before gently closing his eyes.

Go with God, dear Harold, I thought, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Glancing over to the door I saw Holmes supporting Mycroft and went to join them.  Together we helped a distraught Mycroft into his dressing gown and brought him downstairs.  While Holmes sat him in a chair I fetched brandies for us all.  Poor Mycroft's hand was shaking so badly that he could hardly hold the liquor to his lips and Holmes had to help him.

In a voice that betrayed his shock and grief, Mycroft began to mutter, "He's dead.  He's dead, you know.  He died."  His eyes pleaded for understanding and my heart almost broke at the sight.  "Harold died, you know.  He died."

"We know, Mycroft.  We know," Holmes whispered.

"He whispered in my ear," Mycroft continued as if Holmes had not spoken.  "He promised me that..." he faltered and Holmes helped him to take another sip of brandy "...  that we would be together again soon.  Then he said that he loved me, that I must never forget our love.  Then he said ‘Give my love to the boys'."  He gazed imploringly from one of us to the other.  "Oh, Sherlock, John, he died!  He died then and there."  He began to sob again.  "I felt the life go out of him.  I...  I know it's fanciful but I could swear that I felt his spirit leave him.  Can...  can you understand, my dears?"

"Yes, indeed!" I assured him.  "I have seen a great many people die and it is a phenomenon that I have felt many times.  I am convinced that it is real."

"I, too," Holmes whispered.

Gazing from one of us to the other, he managed a rather watery smile.  "You dear boys!" he murmured.  "Did you know that Harold always called you ‘the boys'?  He would eagerly anticipate your visits and would always ask me when ‘the boys' were coming to visit with us again.  He was quite taken with you both, you know."  He turned to Holmes.  "Of course, you know that he was simply smitten with Sarah!"

"Everybody is smitten with Sarah!" I could not help adding.

"As they should be!" Holmes murmured languidly, inspecting his perfect manicure.

"Sherlock, you are insufferable!" Mycroft accused.  "But I will never forget the first time Harold danced with her at the Trelawney Hopes.  Afterwards he couldn't stop praising her skills on the dance floor and saying what charming company she was."
 

"Hah!  You were jealous, brother mine!" Holmes accused.

"Jealous?  Of my own little brother?  Hardly!  You had your John and I had..." he faltered, "...had my Harold."  He gazed earnestly at Holmes.  "Oh, Sherlock, we must be careful.  We must always say that I came to play chess with Harold on weekends.  We must put out the chess set.  We must set it up now.  Then we must pack our belongings and leave for this house was Harold's and he told me he would have to leave it to his family as it might arouse suspicion if he left it to me."  He turned to me and grasped my arm.  "John!  John, you can sign the death certificate, can't you?"

I covered his cold hand with my own.  "Of course, Mycroft.  You need not concern yourself.  Holmes and I will take care of everything.  You just sit here and relax and drink your brandy."  I topped up his glass.

"Do not fear, brother mine," Holmes assured the grief-stricken man, "John and I will look after everything.  We will take care of things from now on.  You need not concern yourself."

While Holmes packed up Mycroft's belongings I went to rouse Mrs. Galston and give her the bad news.  The poor lady took it reasonably well for we had all been expecting it.  She was an asset when it came to finding anything that belonged to Mycroft and pretty soon we had everything packed and put away in our motor cars including our own overnight bags.

Holmes decided that he would wait at the house with Mycroft and set up the chess set to make it look as though there was a game in progress whilst I went to fetch the local police.  The story we had concocted for them was that Mycroft and Mrs. Galston had found Harold dead when he failed to come down to breakfast.  As to the presence of Holmes and myself, Mycroft had telephoned Holmes yesterday evening to say that he had a problem with his car and, as Harold did not drive, he needed us to fetch him but by the time we arrived it was too late to work on the car last night, so we had had to spend the night.  However, the problem turned out to be a simple one and Holmes was able to fix it this morning.

When I arrived at the police station I discovered that there was a considerable delay as, the hour being so early, there was only one sleepy constable on duty when I arrived.  By the time he telephoned his superiors and they subsequently arrived it was some half hour later so that by the time I returned to the house with three trusty members of the Kent Constabulary following behind me in their car almost two hours had elapsed.  The sight that greeted us as we drove up the driveway will live long in my memory.

There on the front steps of the house sat Holmes cradling Mycroft in his arms.  For a moment I wondered if Mycroft had passed out, but then I also beheld Mrs. Galston standing beside them sobbing.

As I alighted from the car and ran up the steps to them I knew that I was already too late.  Something in the stillness of Mycroft's body, in the odd angle of his limbs told me that he was already dead.

As I felt for a pulse I asked a distressed Holmes what had happened.

"He...  he was upset, as you know, by his old friend's death.  I was taking him out to sit in the car while we awaited your arrival.  I thought it might do him good to get out of the house, but..." he swallowed hard, "but, oh, Watson, he never made it!  He...  he put his hand to his chest, as though in pain, and collapsed moaning.  I...  I wanted to get him in the car and take him to the nearest hospital...  but then, while I held him, he died only moments later."  His look was anguished.  "Oh, Watson, he died in my arms!"

"Shh, it's all right, Holmes.  It's all right.  There was nothing you could have done.  I regret that I was not here, but even had I been here, there is nothing I could have possibly done either.  Now come along, old friend."

"But Mycroft..." he protested weakly.

"...is beyond need of help now.  There was nothing anybody could have done in that situation, Holmes, and at least he did not die alone."

Gently, with a last tender stroke of his fingers through his brother's white hair, Holmes lifted Mycroft's head and as Mrs. Galston handed him a cushion, he placed it gently under him as we lay him down.  With one last lingering look at the dead body of his dear brother, he let me lead him into the house, the police following silently behind.

As I poured Holmes a brandy and bade him stay still, he turned to me and I knew that he did not want me to leave him at that moment and, Lord knows, I was loathe to leave him, but the police were present and Harold could not be left indefinitely.

"I won't be long," I emphasised, patting his shoulder in a comforting fashion before taking my leave to escort the police upstairs.

The two detectives made a cursory examination of Harold's body and I told them our story which, thank heaven, they readily accepted.  It was obvious even to the Kent Constabulary that both men had died of natural causes, Harold from an aneurism and Mycroft from a heart attack brought on by the shock of his old friend's death.  I returned downstairs and telephoned for the local undertaker.

As I signed the death certificates the undertakers arrived and Holmes telephoned his solicitor for we had to somehow notify Harold's family of his death as they would have to make the funeral arrangements, although, if truth be told, if we had had the choice, we would have buried them side by side right there in the grounds of Willow Grove, the place they both loved so much.  Briefly, I wondered what would happen to the place now.  No doubt members of Harold's family would come to live in it - after all, it was an attractive place to live - but Holmes and I would never see it again.  How we would miss it!  The end of an era, I thought sadly.

As we drove away from that lovely little house for the last time, I driving our Vauxhall and Holmes driving Mycroft's Rolls, Mrs. Galston closed the gate behind us for the last time and I felt nothing but emptiness.  We had both known that this day would come eventually but one always hopes that the inevitable will somehow miraculously not happen.  We had spent so many happy times here, Holmes and I, and I would always miss it.

At first the weather was overcast but fine and as I drove in the lead I kept Holmes in sight in the rear-vision mirror for I was concerned for his mental state.  He had endured two deaths in one morning; Harold's was not unexpected though none the less a terrible blow to us both, but to have his dear brother, whom he had only grown closer to over the years, expire in his arms would have been an even greater shock.  Alas after only about twenty minutes into our journey the weather began to close in on us and it shortly began to pour, the wind buffeting the car.  The rain was pelting down so hard that I could barely see the road in front of me and I turned on the headlights and was forced to drastically reduce speed.  In the rear vision mirror I could occasionally just make out the headlights of the Rolls following me, but in the end the rain was so torrential that I was had no choice but to pull over to the side of the road.  I desperately honked the horn in the hopes that Holmes would see me pull over and not run into my rear, but, thank God, he saw me, or heard me, and pulled in immediately behind me.

After turning off the motor and headlights I hunted around for my umbrella which was not under the seat where it should have been, but at that moment the passenger door opened and Holmes jumped in, trying not to let in too much rain in the process.

"Well, this is a nice how-do-you-do!" he declared loudly, for the noise of the rain on the roof was almost deafening.

"I could hardly see where I was driving!" I complained.

"Nor I see you!  I was afraid that at any moment I might run up your rear end!"

Unable to keep a straight face, I smiled, wondering if he would realise what he had just said.  After a moment he gazed at me, really seeing me, and gave one of his lightning smiles.  "Perchance did I say something about your rear end, my dear?"

"Oh, just something about ‘running up it'," I muttered in rather offhand manner.

His smile was most affectionate as he murmured in my ear, "A habit of which I am overly fond."

However, at that point his mood changed again, his voice becoming distant.  "Don't worry about me, John.  I will be quite all right."

I nodded, though I knew that he was not - at least not yet.  Taking out my cigarettes, I offered him one, and we sat there for some fifteen minutes until the rain finally eased off enough for us to at least see where we were going.

The foul weather continued the whole way to London, though at least the rain was not as heavy as it had been back in Kent.  Once back in London I followed Holmes as he took the Rolls to the garage Mycroft rented for it, for to have left it parked in Baker Street all night would be tempting fate indeed, especially the new breed of motor car thieves.

Mycroft had generally lived most frugally, the Rolls being his one and only extravagance.  I remember when he bought it how he had remarked that he found it a bit embarrassing but Harold had persuaded him to buy it.  It was only a year old now, a lovely looking and powerful piece of machinery.  Assuming that Mycroft had made Holmes his beneficiary, I wondered if Holmes would want to keep it.

Once back in the sanctuary of our sitting room in 221B I asked Mrs. Hudson if we might have a light lunch brought up as it was now half past one and I was famished.  As I waited for lunch to arrive I wanted desperately to take Holmes in my arms, to comfort him in the only way that I knew how as I had on that day back in ‘87 when we had first become lovers, but he was closed off to me.  He sat curled up in his chair smoking his pipe and would not say a word as I placed the old grey shawl around his shoulders.

Naturally when lunch arrived he announced that he was not hungry, an entirely predictable development.  However, I realised that a little, gentle coaxing might work.

"My dear, you have had a great shock and you must keep up your strength.  At least have some soup with me."

After giving a great sigh, to my surprise, he bestirred himself and stepped over to the table.

"I suppose I could manage a bite or two," he capitulated, and sat morosely facing me.  However, he made no further protest as he normally would have done.  That behaviour alone was so unlike his normal self that it alarmed me.  I observed that his hand was shaking as he lifted the spoon to his mouth, the appalling and tragic events of the last eight hours finally catching up with him.

After we had finished our soup I drew him from his chair and whispered, "Come, my sweet, let us go to bed."

"At lunchtime?" he inquired doubtfully.

"My dearest Holmes, since when have you ever objected to lying around in the middle of the day?"

This brought the faintest and most fleeting of smiles accompanied by a murmured, "Touché," of acknowledgment.  I took his arm but, to my surprise, he turned and rested his hands on my shoulders and I thought that I had never seen such sadness, such devastation in his grey eyes.

"My dearest Watson, what would I ever do without you," he whispered, as I wrapped my arms around him, returning his tentative embrace and hoping fervently that he would now let me comfort him as I had longed to do ever since finding him on the steps of the house in Kent with his dead brother cradled lovingly in his arms.  As I felt his wiry arms wrap the shawl around me I was overjoyed.

"My dearest John," he murmured, whilst I held him tight in my arms.

As I led my shaken partner upstairs to the comfort and sanctuary of my room I called down to inform Mrs. Hudson that we were not to be disturbed for any reason.  My poor Holmes was in no fit state to protest as I proceeded to undress us both and take him to bed.

As I got into bed beside him I held out my arms to him, offering him an embrace.  To my abiding joy, he came to me, resting his head on my breast, our legs naturally entwining as I pressed him hard against me whilst massaging his shoulders and stroking the long muscles in his back.  He lay quietly in my arms, stretching a little and sighing with pleasure as I gradually eased the tension from taught muscles.

"Dear John, truly you have the magic touch!" he sighed as I continued to rub him soothingly, feeling him relax more and more.

"Better, my darling?" I whispered.

"Oh, yes!  Oh, you are so good to me, my love!  So good!"  He stretched luxuriously.  "Mmm..."

At length we lay there in the coolness, listening to the constant patter of the rain as the wind drove it in gusts to strike the panes of the window, the water running down them in rivulets.  After a while I tilted his face up toward me and leaned down to kiss him.  I was prepared to keep the kiss gentle but he opened to me eagerly so I gave him my tongue to suck on and he whimpered deep in his throat.

"My darling!  My darling John, I thank God you are with me now!  What would I do without you!  You are my strength, my Rock of Gibraltar!"

As I continued to hug him, I began to rock him a little in my arms.  "Shh," I soothed him.  "You are so easy to love, my sweet.  So very, very easy."

He turned and kissed the place over my heart through my night-shirt.  "I don't think that I could bear to be alone now!"

"I know, my dear, I know.  Nor I."  I kissed his forehead repeatedly.  Although I did not want to break the spell of the moment I decided that now might be a good time to get my dear Holmes to speak of events that had transpired this morning when his brother had died.

"Holmes, I was just thinking..."

"What?" he murmured.  "What were you thinking, my love?"

I gazed into his large, dark grey eyes.  "I was thinking that, if Mycroft were alive now, he would be alone.  Very much alone, and grieving for his dear Harold."

"Yes, but we could have brought him back to Baker Street with us!  We could have looked after him!" he swiftly protested.

"Holmes, you of all people know how stubborn your brother was and you know very well that he would not have come here at all.  He would have gone to his lodgings to grieve in private for the companion and lover that he would never see again."

As he gazed up at me the anguish was plain on his face.  "Watson, why are you saying this?"

Tenderly, I stroked his cheeks.  "Because, my dear love, much as we both cared for your brother and would have kept him company as much as he would have permitted it, we are no substitute for Harold.  Worse still, our own happiness would simply rub salt in the wounds, so to speak, as it would only remind him of his devastating loss."

He gazed candidly up at me.  "Oh, my dear John, I..."  He shook his head.  "I never thought...  I should never have realised..."  His voice trailed off uncertainly.  He sighed and shook his head.  "You are quite right, my love, we have each other.  For Mycroft to have had to endure our company would have been doubly painful when one considers that he had lost his own dear love.  Oh, my dear, you are so wise!  After all these years I am still learning from you where matters of the heart are concerned."

I smiled.  "As it should be, my dearest Holmes!"

He grinned up at me and we kissed a little.  After a while I whispered, "Tell me what happened."

He sighed.  "Basically, it was as I told the police - Mycroft clutched his chest and collapsed."

"Now tell me what you did not tell the police," I gently urged.

"As I held him he began to murmur something about Harold and I thought that he was having some sort of seizure, or perhaps an apoplectic fit brought on by the shock of dear Harold's death, and I...  became concerned."

I ran my fingers through my lover's thick hair, stroking it gently.  "Go on."

"He was looking toward the bottom of the steps and he...  he seemed to be talking to Harold.  He said, ‘Harold, is that you?'  Then after a pause he said, ‘Oh, Harold, how well you look, my dear'.  As I observed him his eyes rose as though he were watching someone climb the steps.  Then he clutched his chest again and with an effort turned to me once more.  He said, ‘Harold is beckoning me, Sherlock.  He says he has been allowed to take me with him.'  He reached for my hand then and I held it tightly.  Then he said, ‘Forgive me, Sherlock, but you know how it is.  You understand, you and John.  I must go to him.'  He looked toward the steps once more and smiled before turning to me again.  Gasping, he said, ‘Harold sends his love, and you know that you will always have mine - both of you.'"

Holmes squeezed his eyes shut and I heard the catch of his breath as he continued, "He...  Oh, John, he passed away then.  He...  he just...  stopped breathing."  I held him tighter, stroking his back firmly.  "Dear God, but I could swear that I felt his spirit leave him...  and I felt the stillness in his body."

I understood.  After Reichenbach I understood only too well what it was like to be the one left behind - and I would not wish it on a living soul.  Poor Mycroft could no more bear to be parted from his beloved Harold that I could bear to be parted from my dearest Holmes.  I only prayed that, wherever they were now, they could be together all the time as they had always wished, not just on weekends.

"Forgive me, my love," I whispered.  "I should have been there."

He shook his head.  "No, John, you were right.  There were no previous indications of my brother having a heart condition and, as you said, there was nothing anyone could have done."  He gave a long sigh.  "I am glad though."

"Glad?" I queried, puzzled as to his meaning.

"Glad that I was with him at the end, and that he did not suffer unduly."

I squeezed him a little.  "Good.  I would not have wished either of them to suffer."

"Thank God that they did not."

"You know, Holmes, I have been thinking - perhaps we were warned."  It was Holmes's turn to gaze at me, baffled as to my meaning.  "You remember what Mycroft told us about Harold's death?  He said that Harold told him - no, promised him! - that they would be together again soon."

"Hah!  Harold kept his promise sooner than expected."

"Sooner indeed.  Perhaps I should have cited cause of death for Mycroft as ‘gone with Harold'."

He chuckled.  "Now that would have set the cat among the pigeons!"

"And then there was your own dream, remember?  You said that you dreamt that Mycroft died."

"God, I had almost forgotten!"  He turned to look at me.  "My dream came true!  I dreamt..."  He paused, remembering.  "I dreamt that Mycroft died in my arms, and he did!"

"We must take heed of our dreams, my dear."  I stroked his cheek as he once more rested his head on my shoulder.

"Yes, indeed."   Then he pulled back to look at me again.  "My dearest John, how foolish and selfish I have been.  I have had no regard for your feelings whatsoever and you have lost two very dear friends in the space of one morning."

I stroked his hair back from his forehead.  "Yes.  Yes, I have, and I know that I will miss them very much but, even though I certified them dead, I can't quite bring myself to believe that they are completely gone from our lives, even though I know they are."

He pulled me tight against him.  "Oh, John, I will miss them too, so much!"  He gazed at me, his huge eyes filled with tears.  "So very much!"

"I know, my dear, I know, as I will too, my love."

He clung to me and whispered, "Oh, God, John!  My John, my dearest!" and I felt the moisture of his tears on my neck.

So it was that my dear one finally began to cry for the brother he had lost and the dear friend that he had cared for.  I rubbed his back and shoulders and comforted him as he clutched me, but at that moment I, too, was overwhelmed with grief and began to weep for the dear friends that I had lost in the space of one dreadful morning.  It was hardly manly to cry but the solace of tears finally brought peace to our overwrought spirits as the rain continued to patter against my bedroom windows on that wet summer's day.

*   *   *

Harold's funeral was held three days later at Westminster Abbey, Mycroft's four days later at St George's in Hanover Square.

Harold's funeral was of course a state funeral, a very grand affair with heads of state from all over the world, members of both houses of parliament, foreign dignitaries and, of course, his family in attendance.  I thought of his words to me on that last night in Kent after I had examined him; how he fervently believed that Mycroft, Sherlock and I were his one true family and that he loved us dearly but that, for the sake of propriety, he would not even be able to leave us anything in his will, to which I had, of course, assured him that we neither wanted nor expected anything from him.

Romantically, I wished that Harold and his dear Mycroft could have been buried together, but, of course, that could never be.  However, in a gesture of defiance to society and its conventions, Holmes had identical wreaths made up of pale apricot roses just like the ones growing on the trellis in Kent and he had also ordered identical small ornate scrolls which we attached to the wreaths.  On each scroll was a verse of William Davenant's ‘Under the Willow-Shades'.  Of course, both scrolls and wreaths would be anonymous.

Holmes decided that it would not be quite appropriate for us to attend Harold's funeral as the Great Detective and his intimate friend and biographer for, to the public at large and to Harold's family in particular, we were unacquainted with him - after all, we hardly moved in the same exalted circles.  However, he decided that Lady Sarah Hawthorne should attend - after all she was publicly acquainted with Harold - and so we did, my lovely lady draped in black silk and lace from head to toe.

Lord Hope - for Trelawney had been made a Peer of the Realm - and Lady Hilda shared their carriage with us and saw to it that we were seated alongside them in church.  Later, as we left the church Sarah took my arm and walked close beside me.  Dressed in mourning as she was, she turned a considerable number of heads and I am sure that a great many people wondered just who was this striking figure with her face concealed by a black veil.

Let them wonder, I thought.  Let them think Sarah was his mistress.  Better to have them believe that than to ever guess the shocking truth; that Harold had had a male lover for over thirty years and, despite society's strictures on the amount of time that they could spend together, was more than content with his dear Mycroft.

In a trice I realised that Sarah had wanted to attend Harold's funeral for that very purpose - to deflect any suspicion that people might harbour as to Harold's life style.  Holmes wanted them to think that Sarah was Harold's mistress in order to avert any possible scandal.

As Sarah and I filed out of Westminster Abbey I decided to test my theory and whispered, "Everyone thinks that you were Harold's secret mistress."

As the wind blew her veil back a little I saw her secret smile.  "Let them talk, mon cher.  Let them gossip amongst themselves.  En fait la vérité c'est étrange que fiction, no?"

There were many reporters there, although for the most part they tried to remain unobtrusive while standing out like sore thumbs.  There were also a great many photographers taking pictures of the crowd and I knew that our images would appear splashed across the front of newspapers and did not care.  We owed it to Harold to attend.

After all, I thought, Harold would probably be vastly amused, nay flattered, if people, especially his despised family, thought that the very attractive Sarah was his mistress.  After all they had been seen dancing together at society soirées over the years and there had been the occasional speculation in the gossip columns as to the true nature of their relationship, especially after the night that they had first danced together at Whitehall.

It was as we were departing with the Hopes and were about to climb into their carriage that we spied a young man weaving his way toward us through the mourners.  I had seen him earlier in church sitting with members of Harold's family and therefore took him to be a member of the family.

"Who is he and what do you suppose he wants?" I murmured to Sarah.

"He is Harold's grandson and heir to the title and, if I am not mistaken, he wants my neck, mon amour!"

The man approached us diffidently.

"I do beg your pardon, but are you Lady Sarah Hawthorne?" he queried.

"Oui, Monsieur, that is my name.  And you?"

As he gave his name and title I realised that he was indeed Harold's grandson.  He then queried Sarah as to whether she had been acquainted with his grandfather.

"Oui, Monsieur, I knew your grandfather well.  He was a dear friend whom I will greatly miss."  Her voice almost broke and I put my arm protectively around her.

"You were his mistress, were you not?" the man accused.  "How much did he pay you for services rendered?"  The last two words were uttered with a contemptuous sneer, his eyes raking her from her lace veil to her black pumps, taking note of her expensive black silk garments, even her small, bejewelled bag.  "Substantial sums no doubt!  God knows he left nothing but debts to his family!"

"Pardonner moi, Monsieur?  La maitresse?" queried an outraged Sarah, who proceeded to heap a torrent of French invective on the ill-mannered young man, the point of which seemed to be a vehement denial that she was ever Harold's mistress.  Of course, she was telling the truth, but by the very act of attending his funeral dressed in garments of mourning, she would be forever branded in the eyes of his family and the public as the late Harold's mistress.  In averting one scandal she had created another.

Truth was indeed stranger than fiction, I reflected, and fiction in this case was equally strange.

Lord Hope broke in with, "This is utterly outrageous!  I have never heard such nonsense in my life!  Begone with you, you impudent young man."

The man merely looked scornfully at Hope.  "You will address me by my title, Lord Hope."

"A title is a responsibility that has to be earned - and you have not earned yours!  Now be off with you!"

The young man turned once more to Sarah, a decided sneer on his face.  "There is evidence.  I have photographs of you dancing together, and you no doubt had a secret rendezvous for your sordid trysts.  Be sure of one thing, madam," the last word was virtually spat out of his mouth, "his family will see to it that his paid trollop gets nothing from his will!"

I held her tighter.  "How dare you, sir!" I declared, outraged on Sarah's behalf.  "How dare you insult this good and kind lady!  I will have you know that your grandfather and Lady Sarah were friends, or does the word ‘friendship' mean nothing to you?  You, sir, are no gentleman!  Your attack on this good lady in the hour of her grief is proof of that.  Your behaviour is abominable!  You will leave immediately or I shall be glad to remove you myself!"

He realised that I meant what I said and with myself on one side of him and Hope on the other he realised that he was outnumbered two to one.

"I will bid you good-day then, gentlemen, ladies."  With one last disgusted look at Sarah he departed to return to his family.

Unfortunately this altercation had drawn a crowd of onlookers, all eager for a bit of gossip about the late statesman.

If this young man was anything to go by, it was now painfully evident as to just why Harold had despised his family so much so that he had cut them completely out of his life and apparently left little or nothing to them in his will either.

Scandalous accusations not withstanding, the Hopes invited us back to their home in Whitehall for a light meal, after which we felt a little better.  The restrained Lady Hilda, however, was incensed at the way my dear Sarah had been treated.

"Why the outright impudence!  How dare he!" she muttered.

A decidedly impish look came into Sarah's large grey eyes.  "Hm.  I must confess that I really wanted to kick his postérieur, though it would hardly have been dignified," she added demurely.

As I imagined Sarah striding after the scoundrel, lifting her dress to expose long legs covered in black silk stockings and planting a dainty black boot on his rear end and flattening him, I could not help but smile.  Across the table from me Hope, too, was smiling.  However, it was Lady Hilda who unexpectedly burst into laughter.  I had frequently noticed Sarah have that effect on the refined lady and had many times seen them laughing together.  No wonder Hilda was so fond of her.  Hope, however, was affronted.

"Hilda, control yourself!" he demanded.

At that moment, however, Sarah burst out laughing also while Lady Hilda giggled, "Oh, my dear Sarah, I would have been happy to help you!"

As the women tried to restrain their uproarious giggles, Hope chastised Lady Hilda again, though perhaps he should have left well enough alone for they only laughed harder and longer.

"Incidentally, I presume you all saw the reporter?" Sarah asked innocently, taking a sip of tea laced with brandy.

At this we all froze.  "What reporter?" we asked simultaneously.

"Why the reporter from The Gazette.  He was standing just behind the carriage and no doubt heard every word that was said."

At this announcement there was silence and I reflected that this incident fitted precisely into Sarah's plans that everyone should think that she was Harold's mistress.

After lunch we toasted the late Harold and Mycroft with Mycroft's favourite toast, "To possibilities undiscovered!"

The following day, dressed in mourning black and beneath leaden skies, Holmes and I walked slowly beneath Mycroft's coffin.  His funeral was by contrast a quiet affair attended by members of the Diogenes Club and former government employees whom he had known for many, many years.

At the cemetery the minister's voice droned on and, as the coffin was lowered into the ground, the rain that had been threatening all day began in earnest.  I put up my umbrella and held it over Holmes as he held my arm.  On his other side stood the Hopes.

Afterwards a great many people came over to speak to Holmes, offer their condolences and tell him what his brother meant to them including the hitherto-mute members of the Diogenes Club.  It was apparent that Holmes's elder brother had meant much to many people and they all admitted that they would miss him very much.

Holmes was deeply touched by their sincere expressions of sympathy.  As we walked away I saw the wreaths lying on the ground, our official ones and the anonymous one with its attached scroll among many, many others.  I saw a couple of people open the scroll, read it and walk away shaking their heads in disbelief.  No doubt they thought a verse that bespoke passion under a willow tree highly inappropriate for a so-called misogynist like Mycroft Holmes.  How fortunate that they did not know the real Mycroft!  The Hopes also read the scroll and Lady Hilda turned to me with a most puzzled look on her face.  I merely smiled blandly at her and made no comment.

After the funeral Holmes did not return to Baker Street with me but simply disappeared and I was left to worry about him all day until the evening when he entered the sitting room, a glum expression on his face, and promptly refused to partake of supper.  I could not blame him for not eating and ate little myself.  Our sitting room seemed filled with a brooding silence.  After the maid, whom Mrs. Hudson had long employed to help her, had cleared away the untouched dishes, to my surprise he abruptly turned to me and without preamble demanded that I come upstairs.

He sat on the bed and drew me down to sit beside him.

"Did you know that my brother was more of a parent to me than my own father ever was?"  He glanced at me as I gazed into his troubled eyes and shook my head.  "Of course not, how could you?  I have never told even you of my childhood."  I squeezed his hand to encourage him.

"My father..." he closed his eyes and a great shudder ran the length of his body, "...  cared nothing for me.  He ignored me as if I did not exist...  Perhaps to him I did not.  No matter.  I was cared for by a stern nanny until I was old enough to be packed off to boarding school.  From the time I was little the only love I received was from my brother."  He glanced my way again.  "Knowing Mycroft, you would not believe it, would you?"

"Not...  when I first met him," I admitted.  "Later, when I saw him with Harold, I realised that there was much more to your brother than met the eye, that he was a man who hid his feelings well and that he was truly a person of great caring."

"Great caring indeed," he mused.  "Had he had children he would have made an excellent parent.  I suppose you might say that, in a way, I was his child.  He taught me so much.  He would play with me and teach me all the games he knew and he would laugh and encourage me when I got it right.  He taught me to ride, to shoot, to play chess, archery, croquet, badminton, polo.  Most of all, he taught me to observe everything and everyone around me, and to deduce.  He realised early on that, like him, I had a logical mind and, whereas he preferred facts and figures, I preferred motives and clues."

He sighed and smiled a little.  "As soon as he could earn enough money he saw to it that I spent school holidays with him, rather than at home.  Heaven knows how he managed that.  He would not talk about it and I never dared mention it to my father whom I seldom saw after that."

"Your father...  is dead then?" I ventured cautiously.

He nodded.  "He died of pneumonia in ‘79 when I lived in Montague Street."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be.  He was never a father to me, barely even an acquaintance.  My brother was both father and brother to me."

"Then I can only be grateful that you had such a brother."

"I suppose you want to know about my mother," he ventured after a while, staring at the ceiling.

"If you wish to tell me," I murmured into the stillness, hoping that now, after all these years, he would finally disclose the truth about his shuttered past.

"My mother was a beautiful woman, but she was...  frail, both physically and mentally.  She was often confined to bed and frequently endured bouts of melancholic distemper.  In later years she became a complete invalid and required a permanent nurse to look after her.  Although I believe she cared for both my brother and myself she was far too ill to look after us and so we saw little of her except to be ushered into her room to kiss her good-night each evening."

"Although her doctor had warned her that it would be too dangerous for her to conceive again, eventually when I was seven years old, she did.  I believe now that she did it in an effort to win back my father's love for he had long had a mistress who lived nearby.  The child, a daughter, was stillborn."  He gripped my hand tightly.  "Thereafter my mother suffered a severe bout of melancholia and the doctor warned that on no account should she be left alone.  One night the nurse dozed off and my mother locked herself in the bathroom and cut her wrists.  When the nurse roused the household about an hour later and they broke into the bathroom it was already too late and life was gone from her body."

"And your father?" I asked quietly.

"Was relieved.  Oh, he put on a great show of public grief, but privately, he was overjoyed.  He had his freedom.  He was free to see his mistress whenever he wished."

"And did he marry her?"

"No.  In his case it was apparent that familiarity bred contempt, as the saying goes."

I could not help smiling.  "Not in our case!"

"Never!" he declared, pulling me down until I was lying close beside him on the quilt, our legs entwined.  He gazed on me with such great affection that I hugged him, wrapping my arms around him as he buried his face in my neck.

"I was contemplating today what I would do if you died," he murmured after a while.  "I am ashamed to admit that I considered that perhaps if I loved you less it might be easier," he mused.

So that was what was troubling him.  "And what did you decide?" I whispered.

He gazed up at me and gave a wry chuckle.  "I realised that even if I cut out my heart, performed a lobotomy on my brain, amputated my right arm...  and castrated myself, I could not sever my feelings for you.  My life is entwined with yours, my heart.  Our lives are woven together so very intricately, beyond any hope of unravelling and, far from loving you less, I could not love you more."  He shook his head.  "I therefore concluded that it was patently impossible."

"I know."  His thoughts echoed my own of the night Harold died.

"John, do you believe what Mycroft said about Harold returning for him?"

It had been on my mind ever since Holmes had related the true circumstances of his brother's death and, heaven knows, I had once or twice heard similar utterances from others as life ebbed from their bodies.  "Yes.  Yes, I do."

He sighed.  "My poor brother.  He could no more face life without Harold," he stroked a finger down my face, "than I could without you."

Without warning he gripped my arms like steel.  "Promise me!" he demanded.  As I looked at him in non-comprehension he demanded, "Promise me you won't leave me!"  Then he shook his head.  "Oh, forgive me, dear heart, forgive me!  I have no right to demand that of you!  Forget my foolish words."  He turned his face away from me.

But how could I forget his impassioned plea not to leave him?  How could I when they echoed the thoughts of his distressed soul - and my own?  But how could I promise him what mortal man had no power to control?  Or did we? I wondered.  Did we have any say at all in the manner of our deaths?  I had no answers to give him, only my love.

"Holmes, look at me."  He turned to look at me, his beautiful eyes with their thick fringe of black lashes most troubled.  "My dearest, I vow to you here and now that, if it is within my power, I will not leave you - ever!" I touched my lips to his, sealing my vow with a kiss.

He hugged me, crushing me against him before pulling back to gaze at me in his candid way.  "And I give you my solemn vow, my dear love, that, should I die first..."  He stopped speaking as a distinct shiver ran the length of his body.

"I felt that," I whispered, my lips against his ear.  "Are you cold?"

"No."

"But you have goose-bumps!" I protested.

"It was nothing," he denied.

"Like someone walked over your grave?" I whispered.  He shivered again.  "Tell me!" I demanded.

"I...  I felt a shiver go up my spine like lightning and...  my hair stood on end."

With my fingers I soothed the hair at the nape of his neck before rubbing his back in soothing strokes.  "All right now?"

"Yes.  Yes, my sweet," he murmured.  "As I was saying, my dear heart, I give you my solemn vow that, should I die first..."  For a third time a shiver ran through him, even stronger this time, causing him to gasp slightly, but he continued, "...then I promise to do all in my power not to leave you behind.  I promise, my love."

"And I promise the same," I vowed.  "If I die first, then I will beg God that you may be allowed to come with me, and if you die first, then I shall go with you, no matter what!"

"Oh, yes, my love, yes, no matter what!  As before death, so after."

"As before, so after," I repeated and together we affirmed our vows with an ardent "Amen".

We sealed our vows not only with a fervent kiss but with the vehement - even defiant - worship of our bodies.  As I took his manhood into my mouth to suck the sweet-salt life from him, and he from me, it was a celebration not only of our love and all that we meant to each other, but also an affirmation of our newly-made vows to experience whatever lay beyond the grave together.  As before, so after.

*** * ***