Chapter XXI
La Dolce Vita
Since Holmes and I moved to Willow Grove in Kent, the very same residence where we spent so many enjoyable weekends with Harold and Mycroft in years gone by and which we had thought never to see again, our existence now is somewhat more settled, though hardly less active. Holmes now has more time to spend on writing monographs, indulging in chemical analyses and practising his violin. He has even taken to keeping bees and tending the garden, especially the rose bushes. I still spend my time writing up his cases and having them published under my nom de guerre and, of course, answering all his mail. His fame has spread far and wide these days and he gets even more requests for help than ever, a great many of them from abroad. Even though he turns down those that he considers unworthy of his talents, which is most of them, there will always be the occasional one that will sufficiently intrigue him. Once more the game will be afoot and we will set off to hunt for clues.
Holmes also gives lectures to young Scotland Yarders, all avid students of the Great Detective's methods. He says that the country is in good hands with these promising young men so that he is happy to leave the criminal elements to their tender mercies.
We often travel up to London to attend a concert or opera, though each time we go there now I am constantly amazed that so much has changed since that fateful day in ‘81 when Holmes and I first decided to share lodgings in Baker Street and were looked after by our dear Mrs. Hudson (bless her soul). The gaslights are long gone as well as many old districts riddled with disease. So also are most of the horse-drawn vehicles. The motor vehicles and electric lights of that great city have made the streets a lot cleaner and safer, though noisier than ever. None the less I am glad not to live there any longer.
As I recall, it was during that business of ‘The Sign of Four' that Inspector Athelney Jones referred to Holmes as `an actor and a rare one'. Indeed acting had always been one of Holmes's many talents and I believe that he would have achieved considerable success had acting and not crime been his raison d'etre. Be that as it may, since we have moved to Kent he is now getting a chance to fulfil that latent talent and I believe that he is pleased by his success, though, of course, he says little. This all came about when we decided to attend the opening night of Gilbert and Sullivan's ‘The Sorcerer' produced by our local operatic society. The performances were excellent, especially the one by the young baritone, Anthony Stanhope. Unfortunately, the play closed the same night owing to the performance being marred about five minutes into the second act as Mr. Stanhope unceremoniously dropped dead on stage in front of the entire audience. It was indeed fortunate that we were on the scene and Holmes was able to begin his investigation right away, far ahead of the local constabulary. Not only did Holmes solve the case within a week, but he was also invited to join the operatic society. This came about as a result of my mentioning to the director that Holmes just happened to have a fine baritone voice, which indeed he did, and was an exceptionally gifted actor, which indeed he was. The director was most enthusiastic in his entreaties but Holmes, though flattered, blamed my humble self for the constant flow of invitations. After a full month during which my stubborn partner insisted that he really had no time to devote to amateur theatricals, he finally allowed himself to be persuaded to go along to a rehearsal of Trial by Jury. Of course since he never missed a note he was instantly popular with the director and promptly cast in the role of the judge. Henceforth Holmes became well known throughout the district for his on-stage performances, not just his expertise in solving mysteries. In fact, so popular did he become that many people urged him to try his luck on the West End, however, he would always demur, insisting that he would not flatter himself so much.
Holmes has also spent a good deal of time dreaming up ingenious ways to investigate whether this place is truly haunted or not - after all there is nothing he likes more than to get his teeth into a good mystery - all to no avail. Most of his tests have proved either negative or inconclusive. However, I am firmly convinced that Willow Grove is haunted due to the plethora of unexplained phenomena which Holmes and I have witnessed with our own eyes, not to mention the testimonials of our good housekeeper, Mrs. Galston.
How well I remember our first day back at our old and much-loved weekend haunt, not just for the fact that it was our first day there in three years, but for the argument that ensued over which bedroom to use. Since the master bedroom had always been Mycroft and Harold's room and the first guest bedroom had always been ours in bygone years naturally Holmes began to unpack his clothing in the guest bedroom. However, against his vigorous objections, I was for using the master bedroom as it was a larger room and had a most captivating view of the lake and gardens.
"Watson, I simply can not sleep in the master bedroom. That was... their room. This one was ours," he argued.
"I know, my love, but this place is ours now and I really think that it would be foolish of us not to sleep in the master bedroom."
"Yes, John, I realise that and I know that Mycroft and Harold are dead now," he muttered with forced patience, "however, the master bedroom was their room, not ours. This is our room and I intend to sleep in it forthwith."
My dearest Holmes was a most stubborn man. Gentle persuasion was the order of the day and I held out my hand to him. "You have not even set foot in the master bedroom. Come and see it. Mrs. Galston has it all aired for us."
"I would really rather not."
It was patently obvious from his tone that, as far as he was concerned, the subject was closed. Well not with me, by Jove!
Grasping his hand, I pleaded, "Sherlock, please?"
However, he proceeded to ignore me, endeavouring to extricate his hand from mine in order to continue his unpacking, but I had a firm grip on him. With a thoroughly disdainful expression he finally acquiesced and let me lead him out onto the landing, but as we walked toward the door to the master bedroom, something odd occurred; something that I had personally witnessed before but Holmes had not - the door to the master bedroom simply opened by itself, as though in welcome.
We both stopped dead in our tracks, transfixed by the sight of the silently opening door. I still had Holmes by the hand and he gripped my hand now like a vice.
"You see? This is what I was telling you about!" I whispered.
"Nonsense, Mrs. Galston must be in there."
"She is in the kitchen. Come on!" I whispered, stepping forward and literally pulling my reluctant partner toward the doorway.
Mrs. Galston had placed a large vase of pink roses on a chest of drawers and their fragrance permeated the room. The morning sun was streaming through the windows filling the room with light and warmth as we gazed around, but I must confess that I, too, was remembering the last time we were in this room and how our dear friend, Harold, had lain dead on that very bed and poor Mycroft had been distraught with grief. None the less, to me, the room seemed warm and welcoming despite being dominated by the huge four-poster where Harold had died.
Holmes proceeded to wander around the room, minutely inspecting everything in sight before stopping at a window to enjoy the view.
"Lovely, is it not?" I ventured after a while, slipping an arm around his waist. He merely nodded, but then unexpectedly threw a wiry arm around my shoulders.
As we stood there together, I could not help but ponder that Harold and Mycroft must have stood at this very same window countless times in the past just as Holmes and I were now. They too had loved each other dearly just as Holmes and I did, and it was as though I felt a reflection of that love now as I stood here in the sunlight, my dear one by my side.
At length Holmes turned to me.
"Forgive me. I am being foolish. There is nothing to fear in this room. After all, it is just a room and yet..."
"What is it?" I asked, concerned.
"It is as though..." He shook his head at the futility of describing the indescribable. Taking a deep breath he began again. "I feel... something..."
"What kind of something?" I cautiously inquired.
"There is something here, in this room. I... I feel it!" he cried in frustration. "I... feel it," he repeated somewhat more calmly.
"What do you feel?" I again inquired. "Is it warm or cold?"
He closed his eyes and concentrated for a few moments. "It is... cold, like chill," he eventually decided, and yet it has a warm feeling about it. Quite warm," he gave one of his lightning smiles, "as contradictory as that sounds. It is not warm as in a physical sensation of heat, but warm as in... welcoming... is the only way I can describe it."
Indeed I had felt exactly the same thing since entering the room.
He wrapped his arms around me. "Do you really feel it, John?"
"Oh, yes! It feels like... almost like we are being greeted."
"You know that I have never believed in ghosts. I believe that there is a rational, scientific explanation for all so-called unexplained phenomena."
"So?" I whispered in his ear. "Do you then doubt the evidence of your own eyes and senses?"
"I see it, but the logical part of my mind says that there must be some simple explanation. Doors do not open and close by themselves. The only time they do is when the wind moves them, or perhaps they... are off-centre," he added thoughtfully, going to examine the offending door.
He proceeded to swing the door on its hinges leaving it open at various angles, all to no avail. The door simply would not move - all of which proved to me that it was a perfectly normal door with no defects and I said as much.
"Huh!" he muttered, giving the door a disgusted look. "There is an explanation for the abnormal behaviour of this door, Watson, and I shall find it!"
At that moment the commodious mahogany wardrobe unaccountably chose to give a loud creak, causing us both to jump.
"Expansion and contraction of the wood," Holmes decided.
A loud cracking noise emanated from the window pane closest to us. We both turned to stare at it, expecting to see I-don't-know-what.
"Sunlight expanding the frame," Holmes defended, none the less gazing in puzzlement about the room, like myself.
Without preamble he promptly decided that I had to help him dismantle the bed.
"Dismantle the bed! Whatever for?" I demanded.
"It is quite simple, my love: I agree that we should sleep in this room - in our bed! That," he indicated the bed currently occupying the room, "was their bed and we shall put it in our old room."
Sighing, I shook my head doubtfully. "Holmes, do you know how to dismantle a four-poster?"
"Watson, I will have you know that I am an expert carpenter!" he retorted.
I should have known, I thought resignedly. "Of course," I muttered.
Strolling over to the bed, he gazed at it thoughtfully. "Now let me see..." he mused.
"Perhaps we should start by removing the mattress?" I dared to suggest.
"An excellent notion! If you will assist me, my dear?"
By the time we had dismantled both beds to the point of being able to get them through the doorways I was starving and wanted to take a break for lunch, but my dear and indefatigable partner would have none of it, insisting on continuing until the job was finished. Fortunately for me, dear Mrs. Galston turned out to be a life saver, bringing us sandwiches and coffee.
Eventually, the individual pieces once more resembled beds again, but by that time I wanted nothing more than to soak in a hot bath. Thereupon I asked Mrs. Galston to prepare a hot bath for me, which she immediately did, filling it with sweet-smelling bath salts. However, as I lay there drowsing in the steamy room my relaxation was disturbed by my partner strolling into the bathroom and declaring, "Ah, my dear, that does look delicious!" and proceeding to undress and join me, sitting at the opposite end of the very large bathtub.
He settled into the water with a great sigh. "Ah, John, this is the life!" he proclaimed.
"Mm, yes!" I sighed. "A bathroom adjoining the bedroom - wonderful! - and three times the size of our old bathroom too."
"Um, yes, it is positively decadent."
I proposed that we see the garden later as the agent was to hire a gardener to get started on it.
"I'll leave the garden to you, my dear. I shall be unpacking and setting up my new laboratory."
"Then perhaps after you have set up your chemicals and paraphernalia we can take a stroll in the grounds?"
I was remembering the many times that Holmes and I had strolled the attractive grounds with Harold and Mycroft in years gone by.
"Oh, yes! After all, it is a long time since I have seen a certain tree." He smiled slyly and I could swear that my heart skipped a beat in anticipation.
Holmes kept his word and later that afternoon we strolled the grounds. The lawns had indeed been mowed and the gardener had made a start on the weeds that everywhere covered the flowerbeds. We stopped by the lovely rose trellis and I made a mental note to work on it the following day for, like everything else, it was sadly in need of care.
We strolled on down to the lovely horseshoe-shaped lake. As we stood near the water's edge admiring the view Holmes put his arm around my shoulders and declared with great affection, "Thank you, my dearest companion and beloved partner. Thank you for restoring this beauty, this tranquil loveliness to our lives. It... means more to me than I can ever explain." And standing there in the sunlight with birds wheeling in the air above us and a family of ducks swimming on the lake he cupped my face in his fine hands and brought our lips together in a kiss that was imbued with deepest affection and gratitude as I hugged him hard, pressing his long, wonderful length against me in sheer delight.
As we continued our stroll around the lake we came upon a sorry sight - the two punts half sunk at the water's edge. We removed our shoes and socks, rolled up our trousers and waded in. With a bit of effort we managed to haul them both out of the water and left them to dry out in the sun.
As I gazed on the three long years of neglect they had suffered I could not help remembering the wonderful times that the four of us had had on warm summer days on the lake, just floating around, a gentle summer breeze creating tiny ripples reflecting the sparkling sunlight. Each boat was well stocked with overflowing picnic baskets and bottles of wine, not to mention comfortable cushions to lie on. Of course, since the indolent Holmes brothers would not bestir themselves to pole, Harold and I had done all the work - if you could call it work; after all, it was not a large lake. Sometimes, when we were alone on the water, under cover of a large umbrella to prevent us getting sunburnt, we had made love on the cushions, the boat rocking gently in rhythm with our movements. Ah, la dolce vita, as the Italians say!
When we came to the grove of willows we walked all around them admiring them before finally coming to the one special tree that held such fond memories for us. As we stopped and admired its magnificent foliage moving gently in the breeze I reached for Holmes's hand and he gripped me strongly, turning to smile at me as I parted the branches for us and led him beneath it.
Spacious enough for us to stand up inside it, it was a remarkable feeling to once more be in this unique place where once we had expressed our ardour so freely and with such enthusiasm. So, apparently, had Harold and Mycroft, yet they had never begrudged us using their tree and had never even mentioned that this was also their tree until Harold was on his death bed. This tree had sheltered us and shared our love. What was it the poem said? ‘Whilst they did embrace unspied, the conscious willow seemed to smile'. Now, as we stood under it once more, our hands touching its rough bark, gazing up at the green canopy that surrounded us and cocooned us from the caprices and cruelties of the outside world - I felt it once more - the warmth; the singular, uncommon feeling that was unique to this one remarkable place.
"Do you feel it, my dear?" I whispered, for to have spoken aloud would have somehow disturbed the serenity around us.
"Yes!" he whispered in my ear. "Oh, yes, and I had not realised until this moment how much I had missed it! Come and lie with me."
"But, Holmes, we didn't bring anything," I softly protested.
"Careless of you, my dear! A doctor should always be prepared for emergencies! Unofficial consulting detectives always are!" he added, disappearing around to the far side of the tree and returning with cushions and the dear old grey shawl for us to lie on.
"Holmes!" I exclaimed in surprise, shaking my head and smiling. I was about to ask him when he had had a chance to conceal them there, but then I realised that there had been only one opportunity for him to have done so and that was when I first got in the bath.
After all these years it always seemed remarkable to me that he would still take such child-like delight in surprising me and his dark eyes positively sparkled now as he gazed on me with great fondness.
We spread out the shawl, placed the cushions against the tree and removed our shoes. Holmes sat back, leaning against the trunk, and I reclined against him, his long legs on either side of me and his arms around me as I rested my head on his shoulder.
Warm lips touched my cheek and I smiled. "Do you remember the first time we made love here?" I murmured.
"Vividly!" He kissed my cheek again. "I also recall you wrote a most moving account of it in one of our private journals."
I chuckled. "Yes, I did enjoy writing that one." I returned his kiss.
"Oh, it is so good to be back! I feel so at peace here," he whispered, his hands roaming over my chest and ribcage. "I thought that we would never see this place again in our lifetimes."
"I know, my love. Fate works in mysterious ways, does it not? I never dreamt that we would be able to come back here, and yet now it is ours and we can come here whenever we wish - weather permitting."
"Oh, yes," he sighed, "whenever we wish."
As we lay there I was once again caught up in the atmosphere of this special place. The afternoon sun was shining through the thick canopy of leaves, reflecting its brilliance from the surface of the lake and dappling us both with random, moving patterns of light. The profusion of boughs trailing to the ground gave us complete privacy. As I often had in years gone by, I could not help but ponder that it was as though we were in our own private world where nothing and no one could touch us. There was only the willow, the sunlight, the lake, the sound of birds wheeling overhead, my dear one in my arms - and most of all there was love.
"This place is... very special," I whispered, as though to speak out loud would disturb the peace of this place. "It is almost... sacred."
"Indeed it is," he murmured, rubbing his cheek against mine, "as it was to dear Mycroft and Harold."
I brought our lips together to share a long, delectable kiss. When we finally parted he gazed at me through smoky grey eyes with fire burning in their depths and promptly claimed my mouth, his tongue roaming at leisure in a promise of things to come as his hands unfastened the buttons of my waistcoat, shirt and trousers and I felt the hard rod of his sex pressing against my own.
We were forced to part to finish undressing before my lover reclined on the shawl in all his naked glory, a wondrous sight for me to gaze on. If love be blind, then I prayed never to regain my eyesight!
"Truly you are beautiful!" I murmured, kissing the smooth warmth of his flesh, the planes and angles of his shoulders, the tender flesh of his throat, lower to his chest to feast on tiny pink nipples that hardened immediately at the touch of my tongue whilst running my hands over the lovely flat plane of his belly and firm, muscular thighs. But how could I ignore the object of my goal that was now jutting proudly before my avid eyes. Standing tall and hard and straight, it lured me to hold it in loving hands, to encircle it, to fondle it, to lean over and worship its bounty, as hopelessly addicted now as I ever was to its virile and dangerous allure.
How I adored him! There, alone in our sacred place once more, I worshipped his lovely prick with avid lips and tongue, totally oblivious to all but the giving of pleasure to my lover. Knowing exactly how my dear one liked to be loved, I stroked his thighs, fondling and gently manipulating his testicles, loving the feel of their fullness in my hand.
Of a sudden I was seized and turned as hungry lips began to travel all over me, seeking - and knowing - every sensitive spot on my body, making me feel twenty times more vital, more alive than at any other time.
My dear Holmes continued his loving assault on my person until I had to beg him to cease whereupon he sat back on his heels, observing the heady state of my arousal. His covetous eyes swept me from head to foot and the proud staff of his manhood thrust upward from its surrounding scattering of black fur to throb gently against his belly.
"And now, dearest friend and beloved companion," he whispered, "I beg you to claim me for your own. Here. Now. In this, our sacred place, join us and make us one. Body and soul, heart and mind. One. Love me, my darling John."
Was anyone ever so loved? I wondered. Was anyone ever offered so much? How could anyone ever think that this man was cold-hearted when he was the dearest, most affectionate lover that anyone could ever wish for?
I wasted no time in complying, my unquenchable desire for my dear Holmes matched only by his for me. After so long an absence the weeping willow was once again witness to our labours of love.
* * *
That evening after dinner we stood before the fireplace in the dining room, cognac in hand. My partner was gazing on me most fondly.
"My dearest and most beloved partner, let us drink a toast to Harold and Mycroft!" Holmes declared.
"Long may they live!" I replied.
As we gazed into each other's eyes and drank, something most curious happened as an ice-cold shiver sent a shudder through me, my hair stood on end and I almost dropped my glass. Simultaneously with this eerie feeling I noticed Holmes freeze as, apparently, the same thing happened to him.
"You felt it too?" he whispered, noting my own reaction.
Nodding, I realised that I was covered in goosebumps. "Perhaps our friends are not so ‘absent' after all," I ventured.
As if to confirm my words, a book toppled from the bookshelf on my left to land with a thud on the rug. We both jumped at this and stared at the offending item as though it were something other than a mere book.
As I picked it up I discovered that it was an 1886 edition of The Sonnets and it had landed on the floor, open at the words of number 116. As I showed it to Holmes I could not help but smile for it was a personal favourite of ours. Holmes said that it had also been a favourite of his brother's.
A thought occurred to me and I wondered if our good housekeeper had noticed anything out of the ordinary about this place since our return here. That evening as she served our meal I ventured to ask her just that.
"In what way, sir?"
"Oh, you know, lights turning themselves off and on again, doors opening and closing for no reason."
"Oh, that! That's just Mr. Harold and Mr. Mycroft having their wee bit of fun!"
Her attitude was so nonchalant that Holmes and I stared at each other in surprise.
"Mrs. Galston, you believe these happenings to be the work of my late brother and Harold?" Holmes queried.
"Oh, but of course! They're often here," she replied blithely.
"But how do you know that?" I inquired.
"Well don't I see them about the place all the time."
"You do?" Holmes and I had spoken simultaneously.
"Och, aye! They keep an eye on the place. Mind you, they dinna look quite the same."
"Whatever do you mean?" Holmes demanded.
"Oh, they look so much younger now! So young as you'd hardly recognise them."
"How young?" I asked.
"Oh, about four-and-twenty."
Holmes and I gazed at each other in amazement.
"And it doesn't... worry you... seeing them around the house?" I inquired.
"Och, heavens no! Why should it? I often see spirits," she blithely continued, "and Mr. Harold and Mr. Mycroft were good people and they always treated me well."
"Mrs. Galston, do you... I mean, can you... see them now?" Holmes inquired.
She glanced toward the fireplace and smiled. "Oh, aye! They're in the armchairs."
Holmes and I glanced over at the armchairs by the fireplace but could see nothing out of the ordinary, just two apparently empty chairs.
"Mrs. Galston, do they speak to you? Communicate with you?" Holmes demanded.
"Oh, sure!"
"Have they told you why they are here?" I asked.
"Oh, yes! They say that they exist on another plane now but that they like to come here and visit because this was their home. They also say that they are very glad that you two gentlemen bought this place. It was what they wanted all along, that's why they got rid of all the other tenants." She listened for a moment. "They also say that they are very glad that you're using the master bedroom for this place is yours now and they are most pleased that you chose to come and live here. They say that they will be around to keep an eye on things and..." again she listened, "... and to give you their love and blessings always."
My heart full, I turned to glance at Holmes, only to find his eyes already on me and he was clearly struggling to speak.
"Mrs. Galston, would you tell them..." Holmes began. "Would you tell them that..." Again he faltered.
Holmes was frequently out of his depth in emotional situations but I managed to speak past the lump in my throat.
"Tell them that we welcome their presence and appreciate their caring for us," I glanced at Holmes, who gave a nod of encouragement, "and that we love them very, very much."
Mrs. Galston nodded before pausing a moment to listen. "They say they love you very much and you must not miss them for they are often here and will communicate with you in their own way."
"Are they happy where they are now?" I could not help but ask.
For a moment she listened. "They say yes, very happy, and they can be together all the time now."
"Then truly I am pleased for them," Holmes murmured.
"I, too."
Indeed I was most pleased at this news. Forced to spend more than half their lives apart, and with no one to confide their secret in save Holmes and myself, Harold and Mycroft were apparently together at last. I proposed a toast to their happy circumstances, Holmes joining me.
* * *
That night Holmes and I slept in the master bedroom for the first time. After our afternoon excesses under the willow tree we did not make love but lay quietly together in the huge bed. This room, indeed the whole house, was so much more spacious than our humble rooms in Baker Street that it would take us a while to grow accustomed to it.
After the noise and bustle of London's busy Baker Street, the silence was absolute, and I found it somewhat disconcerting. Of course, there were the usual noises of crickets, frogs and other night creatures. However, I kept expecting to hear the sound of horses hoofs, carriage wheels and motor cars, or the sounds of shouts, yells and drunken revelry with which our ears were assaulted at all hours of the night. This all-consuming rural quiet would take some time to become accustomed to.
After a while Holmes rolled over onto his side and gazed down at me fondly. As I smiled up at him and stroked his cheek he murmured, "I was just contemplating how very fortunate I am, my love, to have this beautiful new home," he leaned over and kissed my cheek, "with a lake," he kissed my other cheek, "not to mention a perfectly wonderful willow tree - all of which would mean nothing without you to share it with. My dearest John, I have said it before but I am surely the most fortunate man in England."
My heart overflowing, I embraced my dear one, whispering my great love, his long, firm length so familiar and so warm in my arms. In turn, he murmured the sweetest of endearments, covering my face with gentle kisses. At length we shared a good-night kiss that owed everything to our immense and long-standing affection for one another. With my dear one's head resting on my shoulder and limbs entwined, we lay quietly drifting until I fell asleep, his hand guarding my heart.
*** * ***
