Chapter VIII
A Life Lost
As I have stated elsewhere, my friend, Sherlock Holmes, was the best and wisest man I have ever known. This is true. However, it is not the whole truth. Here, and only here in my private journal may I speak my own truth; the truth of our enduring friendship, and the truth of our love. The kind of love that is forbidden by law - that is the kind of love that we shared - and it brought me the most complete happiness I have ever known or thought to know - until that terrible day at the Reichenbach Falls in May 1891.
My first reaction on finding Holmes's alpenstock was a dawning sense of dread. Shortly thereafter when I found his note it was as though I seemed to shrink into myself. In vain I looked down into that awful chasm, searching for him, hoping that by chance his body had hit an overhang or that, by the power of his own genius he had somehow survived the impossible, though the constant roar of the water would have obliterated any cries for help. Yet I had continued to hope in vain that he was not dead; hoped against hope that my brilliant friend and companion and the most decent and honourable man that I have ever known had somehow used his genius to escape from the clutches of Moriarty.
But there was no sign. Of course there was no sign. There was only the roar of the tumult and the bottomless depths of the chasm.
Of my return trip to England I have little memory. I must have been in a daze. I know that it was not until I once again set foot in our rooms in Baker Street that the full enormity of Holmes's death really hit me.
That first night back in Baker Street truly I thought that I should go mad. The news of Holmes's death had already hit the London newspapers. Mrs. Hudson, herself grieving, tried to comfort me. I could neither eat nor sleep. I sat in front of the fire and looked across at his chair, but my mind stubbornly refused to believe that I would never again see him sitting there.
In despair, I began to walk around the sitting room, my gaze roaming over the pipe-rack on the mantelpiece, the Persian slipper where he kept his shag tobacco, his desk with its locked drawer where he kept what he referred to as his ‘museum', his chemical set and the accompanying stains on the bench.
In vain, I wandered into his bedroom and sat on his bed. It bore fresh sheets and pillow cover but his scent was unmistakable.
Picking up some of his scarfs I held them to my face, inhaling his so-familiar and much-loved scent. I sat down on the bed with them; the empty bed, for it would always be empty without my dear friend to occupy it, and, oh, Lord, but I needed him so badly! So very, very badly.
Seldom had I cried, at least not since I was a child, but I wept that night for the love that I had lost; for the times to come that would never be. I cried for all the nights that we had spent together in my bed, our bodies entwined, wrapped in the comfort and warmth of our love, and for all the nights that would now never be. I ached with longing to hold him in my arms; to feel the long, lean length of him pressing against me and his soft lips covering mine. Dear God, but I missed him so dreadfully that I truly wanted to die!
Hours later Mrs. Hudson found me huddled on the bed. Heaven knows what she thought of my lying on Holmes's bed. She said nothing, only covered me with a blanket and lit a low-burning lamp. Some time later I remember hugging his pillow, the same pillow we had lain on and sometimes made love on when we slept in his room, and I eventually fell into a dreamless sleep, comforted by his scent.
In the days that followed I occasionally wondered in my irrational grief if God had punished us for loving, as they say, ‘against nature'. But no, I thought. If there was a God in heaven surely he would not condemn us for loving one another as we did for even though our love was of a most passionate and sensual nature we harmed no one and brought each other only an exquisite joy. As long as I live no one will ever convince me that such love could possibly be wrong, even if it does not conform to the settled order of nature.
I know that my dear Holmes was satisfied with our relationship as it was - one can not fake such happiness - and I know also that he loved me very much, as I loved him. I am gratified to know that I, and I alone, was the object of his affections; that I was the one person in the world that Sherlock Holmes chose to love with all the ardour in his matchless soul and I, in turn, adored him with every fibre of my being.
By ridding the world of Moriarty, Holmes had committed the ultimate sacrifice. In his eyes, the need of the many outweighed the need of the one and, no matter how I missed him, I could see the wisdom of his act. It was a noble act of self-sacrifice and, try as I might, I could not blame him for it, no matter that it left me bereft of my dear friend and companion.
That Holmes had chosen to sacrifice himself to rid the world of the evil Professor Moriarty was not, in itself, surprising, for my dear friend was a noble and compassionate man, though he would fain admit it. He had also noted on one occasion that he would consider his life well spent if he could rid the world of Moriarty. That he succeeded is beyond question. That he sacrificed himself in so doing is, to me, the most unimaginable of horrors. I can only pray that wherever my dearest Holmes is now, he is happy, and, dear God, but I wish I was with him!
* * *
The following day the press were clamouring to interview me and were practically encamped at the door, but dear Mrs. Hudson kept them all away. She knew that I was in no condition to see anyone.
How I occupied my time that day will remain a mystery. I remember at one point standing in my room gazing down at my bed where we had spent so many pleasurable nights together in each other's arms.
Lord, but he could be so loving and affectionate! So forceful at all other times, I learnt in the early days of our intimacy that he often loved to be mastered in bed and would let me have my way with him in whatever lecherous fashion I desired - and, oh, but I desired!
At other times it was occasionally a battle for dominance and he would sometimes wrestle me into submission, or I him; not that it particularly mattered who won for all the extra body contact only heightened our excitement and, besides, it was equally pleasurable either way.
How inventive I became and he, my lustful one, would eagerly participate in every utterly wanton and carnal act that I could envision and with an utter lasciviousness which totally exhilarated me. At such times I used to think that we understood each other so well that it seemed to me that it was not just our bodies that were joined but even our thoughts too seemed interwoven, so perfectly in tune were we in heart and mind.
No more, I thought in despair. No more would I hold him in my arms. My arms would remain empty evermore. Death, thy name is Moriarty. Lord, but I loathe the sound of that name!
No, there was nothing worthwhile in my life any more. When my dear friend perished in order to rid the world of the evil and deadly Moriarty, he took everything with him that made my life worth living. My heart lay with him at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls along with all that was of colour and of life. Now there was only greyness; not the warm, living grey of his lovely, changeable eyes with their dark fringe of lashes, but the drab, murky grey of despair.
Within a week I came to realise that I simply could not stay in our old lodgings any longer lest I should go mad. With much regret I informed a saddened Mrs. Hudson of my decision. My practice was doing better and I chose to lease new premises in Kensington where I could have a suite for myself above my consulting rooms. It was there that I moved at the end of May 1891.
Some weeks after I moved I encountered Mrs. Hudson in the street. She informed me that Mycroft Holmes was paying the rent on the rooms in Baker Street. I must admit that I was rather surprised to hear this. She said that Mycroft had insisted that the rooms be kept exactly as they were when my dear friend was alive as a memorial to him.
I was pleased for Mrs. Hudson that she would not have to advertise for new tenants, for she was not a wealthy woman and relied for her income on rent from the rooms at 221B. I must admit that I found it strange that the elder Holmes brother should choose to do this, but then I did not know the man well and in a way it seemed a fitting tribute to Holmes. Perhaps one day in the future people would wish to visit the place where the great detective had lived and worked. As for me, the thought of ever seeing those rooms again without my dear friend and companion by my side was too bitter a circumstance to contemplate and I frequently found myself deliberately avoiding Baker Street.
In vain, I tried to pick up the pieces of my life. I threw myself into my practice, which flourished in the new premises, and I took on an assistant. Because of my past association with Holmes I also maintained an interest in police work and so I was kept busy. All of this helped to supplement my meagre income and I managed all right. I worked long hours and kept myself busy, but not a day passed when I did not think of my dear friend and all the things that we had once shared together.
Gradually, as time passed, the pain transformed from a raw desperation to a dull ache. I wondered if it would ever leave me. Somehow I doubted it. Everywhere I went there were reminders of Holmes. Everywhere I went it seemed that we had previously been there together. I ceased to go to the theatre at all because there was hardly a theatre or hall in this great city that we had not attended at one time or another and there was no joy in going alone. I could not even bring myself to set foot in my club which I had once quite enjoyed.
One day when I was out for a walk I saw an advertisement for Sarasate who was giving another concert at St James's Hall. The mere thought of attending was unbearable. I remembered vividly the time only months previously when I had attended just such a performance with Holmes during that affair of the Red-Headed League. I thought of the happiness he had displayed whilst listening with rapt attention to the music, his fingers keeping time and his eyes languid and dreamy. Because the theatre was bright we could not touch as we could in a darkened one, but we would occasionally shift in our seats and let our legs brush and now and then he would, as though by accident, allow his hand to brush against my arm or my thigh and I would do the same. Each time we did this a small thrill of pleasure would run through me.
Sometimes at night I lie in bed and remember the many times when we touched in clandestine fashion in public places, and I smile. Our love had made us dare much, but then for my dear one I would have dared anything.
In September of that same year I finally took up my pen and did what I had been putting off doing: I wrote a full and accurate account of my dear friend's death. I endeavoured to keep it objective and keep my emotions out of it as much as possible. As always, disguising our relationship as mere friendship, I reported that Holmes had gone to France alone and that I had seen little of him prior to his abrupt departure, whereas nothing could have been further from the truth; we had not been parted at all and I had accompanied him to France where he had recovered the Mona Lisa which had been stolen from the Louvre. Indeed at the time of Holmes's death we were closer than ever and I will always cherish the memory of the last night we spent together at the Englisher Hof at Meiringen and how tenderly he had made love to me.
Afterwards... Oh, I will never forget his words! They were so full of love and affection as he murmured, "My dearest John, no matter what happens in the future, know always that I love you, that I will always love you." He had claimed me with his mouth most tenderly before continuing in his velvet voice, "Oh, my sweet John, you own my heart! My dear, dear friend!" I had returned his affection with enthusiasm, kissing him, petting him and whispering my adoration.
Even now, five months later, the memory of that wonderful and poignant night has the power to move me to tears, though now I wonder at his choice of words. With the benefit of hindsight it seems almost as though he were saying farewell to me; as if, somehow, he had known that this would be our last night together.
You could say that I was living in the past. I admit it without shame. There was no joy left in my life; there was only the bleakness of a future alone with my memories. I have tried telling myself that I should be grateful for the years we spent together, especially the last four years when we had been lovers. Looking back now, I wonder that I could have thought that my happiness with Holmes would last forever, but I had prayed that it would last a good many years, hopefully until we were old men.
Often now I take out the private journals that I had taken to keeping shortly after we became lovers so that I may live again the wonderful memories contained in their pages, and I am so glad that I decided to document many of the loving times we spent together in spite of the risk that this entailed. Holmes had laughed at the time and said that when we were old men we could look back and enjoy them together and I always let him read them. Sometimes he would add his own comments and I encouraged him to write up what we took to calling our ‘private adventures' himself, which he later did.
People who had known Sherlock Holmes, or think that they had known him, would never in their wildest dreams believe that he could have been an affectionate man, and yet he was. Perhaps it was because he existed without love for so many years, or perhaps because he was denied love as a child. He never spoke of his childhood, not even to me, so I can only speculate on what it must have been like for he and his brother Mycroft for they were the most solitary of men, and that type of person is not bred by a household filled with the milk of human kindness. Yet he was naturally affectionate and long before we became lovers he would touch me in many small ways; he would touch my hand, or my arm, or my back. After we became lovers he became even more affectionate and, when we were alone in the sitting room, would often stroke my face and sometimes embrace me and kiss me, not as a prelude to making love, but in simple affection.
As I look back over my private journals now I am struck by the innocence of our love. People might wonder how can this be? How can passion between men be innocent? I only know that this was so. One of my fondest memories is of the night that we loved each other completely for the first time as only two men can and as I gazed on the words of passion that I penned almost four years ago I remembered that incredible night as if it were yesterday.
* * *
We had shared our illicit and delightful ardour for three wondrous nights when Holmes produced a small phial of scented oil. He placed a few drops on my fingers and implored me to put it inside him, assuring me that I would not harm him for he was confident that I would be careful. With some trepidation I did as he requested, first with one finger, then with two.
With every stroke of my fingers he moaned softly, more abandoned to pleasure in those exquisite moments than I had ever seen him. He took up the oil once more and poured a generous amount onto his own hand before bringing it to my own standing manhood and proceeding to thoroughly coat it while I moaned softly at the exquisite feel of his oiled hand stroking me in such tender manner.
When Holmes had finished oiling me he lay down on his back and parted his long legs and I shall never forget his words. "Pray do not make me beg, my dear, for I wish very much to know the feel your large and lovely member within me." So saying, he pulled me down and gave me the longest kiss, thrusting his tongue into my mouth repeatedly before eventually trailing his lips over my cheek to my ear and whispering, "Join us now, my dear, please!" he entreated.
His words excited me beyond belief and I fumbled slightly in my nervousness as he pushed his hips upward and I shoved a pillow under him. I had intended to enter him slowly for I feared to injure him, but he was so eager to receive me that I gently glided in until I was completely engulfed by the most marvellous and welcoming heat that I had ever known.
He gasped a fervent "Yes!" as his eyes closed in bliss and his long legs came up to encircle me most possessively.
When my member was in him as deeply as possible he groaned softly in exultation and opened his eyes to gaze up at me. For the first time I beheld tears in his eyes, and I was greatly moved.
"Oh, my dearest!" I gasped, totally enthralled by the sight of our joined bodies. "Tell me if I am hurting you!" I begged.
He shook his head. "No. No, my John," he gasped a little. Tell me how it is for you."
"Wonderful! You feel so good, so marvellous!" I enthused.
"Yes, yes, yes, my dear!" he gasped. "Oh, but the feel of your prick inside me is quite remarkable! Oh, yes!" He reached out to touch my face with caressing fingers that bespoke gratitude and longing. "Dearest friend, you fill the hollowness within me." He placed his hand over his breast where his heart is. "You touch my empty heart and fill it to overflowing."
His naked soul was revealed in those whispered words and my own eyes filled with tears for my dear friend and companion of whom I must confess that I had once thought to have no heart.
Leaning over to kiss him and whisper my love for him, I felt as though I wanted to shout it from the rooftops in my joy. However, at that moment he moved a little, clasping me to him with his muscular arms, and I was once more aware of our physical union. For myself, I could only describe the sensation akin to being tightly enclosed by a hot, moist glove. So glorious was the feeling that my control was most precarious.
Holmes pleaded with me to move, and I did; slowly and gently for I still feared to injure him with my enthusiasm. However, I made no attempt to satisfy him for I had decided that this night would be a first in more ways than one and if my dear friend chose to give himself to me in so trusting a manner, then I could do no less.
For long moments he watched me, his expressive eyes betraying an exquisite euphoria. In all too short a time I was beyond all thought and reason, for all sensation was concentrated at the point of our joining, and for long moments of blessed torment I moaned in an agony of delight, clutching his writhing buttocks so hard that I left bruises as I thrust into him again and again whilst he responded vigorously, beseeching me to love him, and I could no longer resist his impassioned pleas.
My body jolted as we merged and I joyously poured my heart and soul into him. Through an ecstatic haze I heard him sobbing my name as I fervently clutched him and I leaned down to bury my face in the heat of his neck, feeling the pounding of his heart through his carotid artery as his arms encircled me.
Vaguely, I recall my member slowly sliding from the warm, wonderful sheath of his body as his legs slipped from around me. I also recall that I was quivering with reaction, no doubt from such a powerful physical and emotional release.
For some moments I lay there, collapsed on top of him while he stroked me gently.
"How was it for you, my dearest?" I softly inquired, gazing into his all-seeing eyes. "Did I hurt you?"
He shook his head. "Oh, no, my love! It was wonderful! Exquisite!" he sighed, kissing me in gratitude.
Though I wanted nothing more than to fall asleep right then in his dear arms, I forced myself to rise and check him for injury. I was much relieved to see that there was no blood.
Grasping my arms, he pulled me down to kiss him once more, reminding me of the still-rampant state of his manhood which felt like a rod of hot iron pressed against my belly. It was now my sweet one's turn to join us and I forced myself to take a few deep breaths, sit up and take a mouthful of brandy to clear my senses.
Taking up the oil, I proceeded to anoint his lovely member, worshipping his fullness with my fingers and drinking his bliss with my eyes. Reluctant to let go of my prize, so wonderful did he feel in my hand, I continued to stroke him, enthralled by the sight of his oiled flesh glistening in the candlelight and the sound of his sighs. I pushed back the foreskin and let my finger circle the tender tip of the crown, feeling the satin wetness there, and brought it to my lips to taste as he watched me through eyes half-closed in ecstatic delight. Again I touched him with my finger to gather more wetness and this time brought it to his own lips to taste. He licked my finger most wantonly before sucking it completely into his mouth and I stroked his tongue with it.
"Oh, my sweet, are you certain?" he asked, his voice simultaneously betraying his uncertainty and his hope.
"You shall have what I have had," I answered with determination for I had no qualms now, not after my dear one's enthusiastic response.
"Watson, you have a stout heart!" He smiled and kissed me most affectionately. "I can not deny that there will be some unease, but I shall be gentle. If there is pain, then you have only to command me to cease and I shall."
"Shh," I soothed him. "You don't have to convince me, my dear one; I know that you are a man of honour." I took his hand and poured a few drops of oil onto his fingertips to encourage him. He appeared a little apprehensive but I parted my legs to make room for him and he brought his long beautiful fingers to stroke teasingly at the entrance to my body.
As he stroked me we kissed repeatedly, his delectable mouth meeting my own eager lips with such tender ardour that it took my breath away and all I could do was murmur his name over and over, touching and caressing every part of him that I could reach.
The feel of his fingers within me was at first most strange. Then, as he stroked deeper and began to caress my prostate, I knew a most forbidden delight that seemed only to grow more intense until I was completely at his mercy. Much to my surprise, my prick was once more swelling eagerly.
He knew it, my tender ravisher, and revelled in my surrender. He would grant me no quarter, continuing his flagrant attack until I pleaded in rasping whispers to feel him within me for my arousal was sweet agony in my loins.
Holmes urged me onto my stomach and I parted my legs and raised my rear in welcome as he positioned himself.
"You must tell me if I hurt you, my dear," he murmured, his fine hands stroking and kneading my buttocks in deliberate and precise movements as the tip of his manhood rested against my entrance.
He pushed in a little way. At first there was a feeling of acute discomfort, but not what I would actually call pain.
"All right, my dear?" he inquired rather breathlessly.
"Yes. Yes, more," I managed, though at this stage I must confess that my rectum wanted nothing more than to expel this foreign intruder even if he was my dearest friend and lover.
Holmes pushed in much further now, or at least it felt like it to me, inexperienced as I was. He felt particularly swollen within me.
I reminded myself that it was I who had wanted this; and then I thought of how dear to me this wonderful man was and how very much I adored him. In that singular moment I considered how privileged I was to be the object of his desire. My heart went out to him and I was able to welcome his sweet prick into my body, my anal muscles relaxing and clasping him as though greeting a very dear and long lost friend.
He must have felt my acceptance for he murmured, "Oh, my dearest!" more-than-a-little breathlessly.
"Yes, Holmes! Yes!" I moaned, arching up to him. "Let me feel all of you now. Come into me."
Slowly, with infinite care, he pushed his long and lovely manhood all the way into the sanctuary of my body until he rested gently on me, his hands clasped my own. It seemed to me that the intertwining of our fingers symbolised the joining of our hearts.
"Oh, my dear, dear John!" he whispered breathlessly. "Oh, ‘tis so sweet, my dear, so sweet!"
He withdrew a little then and pushed slowly back in. As his member moved within me I became aware for the first time of a deep pleasure that seemed to grow inside each time his large prick glided wetly over my prostate and I started pushing back eagerly to meet him, my excitement rising higher and higher. He was thrusting deeply now, calling my name repeatedly and murmuring lovely endearments as he grasped my aching manhood, pumping me in time to his repeated thrusts.
When he finally reached that pinnacle of intensity from which there is no retreating I knew it. To feel his passion was utterly joyous and I was filled with love and fire, pushing back against him and coming ecstatically in his wonderful fingers as his burning essence erupted deep within me. Truly, I was afraid that I might pass out, so rapturous was my release.
In those delirious moments of blissful intoxication I knew the deepest satisfaction that I have ever known. My sheer elation stemmed as much from the act itself as from knowing that I could give so much pleasure to my wonderful Holmes. I confess that I felt no small amount of pride that I had overcome my own trepidation and given of myself with such ease, nay utter delight.
"Are you all right, my sweet?" he murmured solicitously, pulling back to examine me as I had him. "Have I injured you in any way?"
"You could never hurt me," I whispered. "However, we should cleanse ourselves."
This we did, thus beginning what was to become a routine and affectionate part of our lives. He did not quite manage to mask his surprise when I offered to wash him and though I believe that his initial reaction might have been to decline, I was pleased that he allowed me to perform this intimate ritual and grateful when he offered to return the gesture.
The last thing I remember of that wonderful night was my darling Holmes taking me in his arms with tender care and pulling the bedclothes and shawl around us, his hand resting over my heart as he murmured my name.
* * *
As I look back now I remember at the time pondering that we had committed the one act for which the law and society could now punish us: the unspeakable crime of sodomy. As then, I ask myself where was the crime when we had both consented? I had been powerless to resist his need and surely he was most desirable, even though male. I had examined my conscience at the time and, far from feeling guilty, I had felt light-hearted, even innocent. I believed at the time, and always will, that a truly benevolent God would not condemn two people for an act of love, no matter their sex; for that was how I thought of it, not as an act of sodomy, but as an expression of love and complete trust.
Our acts of intimacy were not crimes, but graphic and vivid expressions of intense love and desire, and I will always think of them that way. Surely if Holmes and I gave each other pleasure what did it matter that we were both male?
Thoughts of our ‘private adventures' comfort me now and lately I have begun to dream of him. In my dreams he smiles at me, tells me that all is well, and kisses me. Then I awaken from the joyous feel his lips on mine and his slender frame in my arms to the reality of an empty bed and an even more empty life.
Last night I picked up a book of poetry and came across the wise words of Mr. Poe. They said, ‘All my days are trances, and all my nightly dreams are where thy grey eye glances, and where thy footstep gleams - in what ethereal dances, by what eternal streams'. They haunt me.
Of late, these dreams have become incessant. I dream that my dear Holmes holds out his arms to me and tells me that he still loves me and will be home soon. Then he embraces me and we share a most passionate kiss. How I pray that, impossible as it seems, my bittersweet and hopeless dreams might somehow come true!
It is November now and the sombre grey weather matches my mood, cold and bleak. Last week marked the six-month anniversary of my dear friend's death and I still miss him so badly that I can not believe that half a year has gone by since he died. Indeed I know now that I will always miss him for he was unique, and nothing and no one could ever take his place.
*** * ***
