A Chivalrous Gesture, Part Seven

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction (Sherlock Holmes)

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock Holmes

Feedback: Any and all welcome!

Summary: In this sequel to A Masterful Performance, Watson and Daniels work together to convince Holmes to follow-up on a case...

Link to Part One

~

Sherlock Holmes:

I accompanied Watson and Daniels to the brothel and gaming hell that was informally known as 'Genevieve's Place.' I had little interest in their investigation—so long as Daniels did the talking, I was certain that they would soon garner more information on Burnwell. But I was curious to see Watson in such an environment.

It would not be a first for him. Oh, not that he frequented brothels, but surely he had visited his share. He had boasted more than once of knowing women on three continents; since his honour would scarcely allow him to seduce innocent virgins, he must have favored more experienced prey. His conquests had included attractive widows, no doubt, and the occasional professional.

I settled into a corner table where I could keep both Watson and Daniels in sight. They sat down together to a game of Faro and began to lose their money. Quite amiably, I noted with a smile. Soon they were chatting and laughing with the other players.

At length, Daniels left the table in favor of mingling with other patrons. Watson remained in place. He did not attract as much attention as Daniels, nor did he radiate charm as the actor did...but few mortals do. And yet, in his own quiet way, Watson won as much good will, I believe, as did Daniels.

I continued to stare at Watson, at this man who had leaned back in my arms just a few hours ago. What was it about the fellow that set my heart pounding? My attraction to Daniels was perfectly logical; he was my own sort, after all. He had never had an interest in women, he understood that I would always set my work above him—and he, in turn, loved the stage more than he loved me. And he didn't have a bourgeois bone in his body. We were well suited, Daniels and I.

Watson, on the other hand, had enjoyed more than his share of feminine attention. Even now, two jezebels were fawning over him. And, unless I much mistake the matter, he was enjoying their flirtations. I found myself frowning at that.

Watson understood the importance of my work, but would he come to resent it? I can be quite ruthless when on a case. He is all forgiveness, of course—but some of my lies and omissions have hurt him sorely. He does not brush them off as easily as would Daniels.

Lastly, I feared that Watson's bourgeois instincts would come back to haunt me. Was some part of him longing for a wife and children? Perhaps not. I reminded myself again that he could easily have married anytime since he returned from Afghanistan. And he had not mentioned a burning desire to enter fatherhood. And yet, I could not shake the fear that I would prove only a temporary distraction for the good doctor and that he would, at length, choose the comfort of a normal, respectable home.

“You never look at me that way,” a teasing voice whispered in my ear.

I turned my head to find Daniels smiling down at me. I had become so absorbed by Watson that I had failed to notice his approach.

“Jealous?” I inquired as he took a seat beside me.

He shook his head. “Not in the least,” he assured me, keeping his voice low. “I all but pushed him into your arms.”

“On your own terms,” I reminded him.

He grinned. “Well, you can't blame me for that. And it will turn out for the best—we'll deal quite well together, the three of us.”

I picked up the glass of port I'd been nursing and took a sip of it. “I'm not so sure of that,” I said as I set the glass down and allowed my eyes to stray toward Watson again. “I feel as though I've taken leave of my senses.”

Daniels bit back another smile. “Love is known to do that to a fellow,” he reminded me. “It's not a logical endeavor.”

“More's the pity,” I muttered. I picked up my glass again but set it down without drinking from it. “Why aren't you jealous?”

“I was at first,” he owned. “But I don't mind playing a supporting role to his lead...as long as you keep me in the production. Don't fire me, that's all.”

I smiled despite myself. “There was never any danger of that,” I assured him. “I'm much more worried that the good doctor will quit in disgust.”

Daniels stared down at the table for a moment before answering. “He won't because of me. I thinks he accepts me. And I doubt he'll leave you for some bit of muslin. But he might divorce himself from you if you keep up with the morphine and cocaine. He can scarcely tolerate them as your friend.”

I felt myself stiffening. “He may not approve of my needles,” I admitted, “but he will not leave because of them. They are merely a refuge from boredom—he understands that.”

Daniels looked doubtful, but he contented himself with a shrug. “You know him better than I do.” He paused, and then smiled at me again. “Why don't you take him home? I can manage things here.”

I gave him a sharp look. “Don't confront our man on your own.”

“Of course not,” he said. “I'll wait until the good doctor—and his revolver—are at my side.”

“Very well, then,” I told him, still speaking softly, “I'll convince him to leave you to your own devices.”

“Would you like some advice on how best to handle the good doctor back in Baker Street?” Daniels asked with a devilish sparkle in his eyes.

I glared at him in response. “Remind me to box your ears the next time we're alone.”

He laughed. “I'm sure you can find a more interesting way to punish my chutzpah.”

“Indeed,” I said, grinning back at him.

But my mind was already running ahead to Baker Street. How would Watson react once we were alone? And how could I keep from frightening him off? I drank deep from the port and then squared my shoulders, determined to find out.

A Chivalrous Gesture, Part Six

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction (Sherlock Holmes)

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock Holmes

Feedback: Any and all welcome!

Summary: In this sequel to A Masterful Performance, Watson and Daniels work together to convince Holmes to follow-up on a case...

Link to Part One

~

I walked back into Daniels' bedroom with a heavy heart. I was remembering that day, nearly three years hence, when he, Holmes and I had laughingly created Moriarty and his cohorts. There was a charming innocence to that time—an innocence that would be impossible to recapture now.

I took a seat on the edge of his bed and felt his pulse and his forehead. As I had promised Holmes, he would recover. I just prayed that he would not be fool enough to try again.

I remained at his side until his eyes fluttered open. He stared at me as they came into focus and, at length, flashed me the ghost of a crooked smile.

“The cocaine didn’t work,” he said.

“It didn’t kill you, no,” I agreed.

He looked away. “You oughtn’t be so close to me. You shouldn’t be anywhere near me.”

“I have cared for more than one consumptive in my time,” I assured him. “Daniels, why didn’t you tell us?”

“What was I supposed to say?” he asked, his voice flat and weak. “I don’t know the script for this sort of thing.”

I placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to lend him comfort, but he shrugged it off.

“Don’t touch me!”

I stared at him for a moment, suddenly understanding what had driven him to attempt to put a period to his life. It wasn’t that he feared the pain of tuberculosis—it was the thought of being shut away, divorced from human contact. Daniels had always been tactile with his friends and even acquaintances. Moreover, he thrived on the adulation of an audience and the companionship of his fellow theatre folk. What could life offer him now that he stood to lose all of that?

He would not lose Holmes or me. On that point, at least, I could reassure him. But he would lose his life here in London and his career on the stage. Holmes and I would have to convince him to make his peace with that—but that seemed a daunting goal.

“I’m still your physician,” I said quietly. “You will have to bear with my touch.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, but finally shrugged. “Don’t let me stop you from risking your hide,” he said.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I placed my arm around him. I am not a demonstrative man by nature—but Daniels was, for all practical purposes, my little brother. I had long considered him such, at any event. So I pulled him to me, all but forcing him to rest his head on my shoulder.

I had noted this hard edge to Daniels before—when he was in his cups. That, no doubt, was why he so seldom drank to excess. He was not a happy drunk. Instead, his mask would slip, revealing a sarcastic young man who was still bitter toward the family that had rejected him...and still angry at himself for failing to live up to his father's bourgeois ideals.

He was not drunk now, but the mask had slipped regardless. He let out a long, melodramatic sigh, and then snorted contemptuously. “I do have a script after all,” he said as he stopped bothering to fight my hold on him. “Oh, that this too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew—or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon `gainst self-slaughter!”

I managed a small smile at the lines from Hamlet.

“But my solid flesh will all but melt away, eaten up by this disease, won’t it?” Daniels continued. “And as for the Everlasting—well, I don’t care if He’s outlawed suicide. He can go f—k Himself.”

I gasped at that blasphemy. I do not claim to be a religious man, but that was going too far. “You do not mean that,” I said softly.

“Oh, I do,” he insisted.

I bit my lip, horrified. “Do you mean to try again, then? Did Holmes and I do our utmost to save you merely so you can inject yourself with the proper fatal dosage next time?”

“Next time I’ll use a bloody pistol,” he said.

I rolled my eyes again. “Daniels—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, not bothering to disguise his annoyance. “I don't even know how to load a damn pistol. But, if you truly mean to remain my physician, tell me this much: how does this end? Shall I die in some God-forsaken sanitarium? And will there at least be morphine?”

I breathed a sigh of relief: these were questions I could answer. I would not spare him the truth: he deserved and needed my honesty.

“You will not die in a sanitarium,” I said gently. “If Holmes has his way, you’ll live with him in Kent, on a secluded piece of property that his brother owns.”

He shook his head. “I’m not risking Holmes.”

“You’ve already risked him,” I said. “He’s been in constant contact with you after this stunt of yours. He’s been exposed to your sweat, your coughs, your saliva, your—”

“Never mind!” he snapped. “I take your point.”

“Holmes is a grown man,” I continued, “and he’s made his decision. You will not be far from me; I’ll call on you as often as possible. Holmes will maintain his rooms in Baker Street, even while living in Kent, and will likely manage the occasional case.”

Daniels nodded at that. “Perhaps he’ll come to his senses and stay in Baker Street.”

“That is unlikely,” I informed him. “Now, as to the morphine: I’ll teach Holmes how to prepare the proper dosage. You won't have to suffer needlessly.”

“And when the pain grows unbearable?” Daniels persisted.

“That might be years away, yet,” I reminded him, carding his hair with my fingers. “But when the time comes, I’ll increase the dosage to suit your pain.” I paused to take a deep breath. “And by the end—well, often it is difficult to tell whether the morphine or the disease has triumphed.”

He shut his eyes at that and let out a deep sigh against my shoulder. “God damn it all,” he muttered. “Is Holmes here?”

“Yes. I ordered him to let me speak with you first, as your physician. Shall I call him in now?”

“Please,” Daniels said. “But don’t go—not yet. I—I could use your company too.”

I stared at him for a moment, wondering if he feared facing Holmes alone. He was looking rather aghast at his actions. But at length I nodded and called out to our companion.

Holmes opened the door to the bedroom a moment later and paused on the threshold, looking the pair of us over. Daniels gave him the same crooked grin he had given me—but there was a hint of apology in it now.

“Sorry about this,” Daniels said, his face reddening. “I suppose I ought to have mentioned my condition. And I'm sorry to have exposed you to it. Both of you. And you ought to keep away.”

Holmes crossed the room and sat on the other side of the bed, facing him. “We're both here of our own free will,” he pointed out, taking one of Daniels' hands in his own. “Don't presume to lecture us on the risks—we're quite well informed, I assure you.”

I felt Daniels relax against me at that. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Watson says you want us to move to Kent.”

“Mycroft has property there,” Holmes explained. “I believe I can persuade him to rent it to us.”

Daniels sighed. “Sherlock, I—damn it. I'm grateful. Of course I'm grateful—but I'll hate it. I'll hate being out of town. I'll hate being shut away from civilisation, even if it's to stop the spread of this damned consumption. I know it's necessary, but—oh, God, can you see me rusticating on some bloody farm?”

Holmes tightened his grip on Daniels' hand, but he said nothing. I think he knew that it was best simply to listen.

“If you mean to go through with this,” Daniels continued, “you must understand that I will make your life miserable. I'll be an awful patient—and I'll resent you and Kent and the disease. And I'll know it's not your fault, but I'll still blame you.”

“And God, apparently,” I reminded him.

Daniels had the grace to laugh at that. “I've been shocking poor Watson with my blasphemy,” he explained. “And he's right—I do blame God for the whole of this.”

Holmes favored us both with a sour smile. “I have my own axe to grind with God at present,” he said, “but I rather think we can be forgiven our anger, under the circumstances. Certainly you can—Jews, I've noticed, make a habit of arguing with the Almighty. It seems to be one of their duties.”

Daniels gave him a playful scowl. “We have no monopoly when it comes to arguing with God,” he insisted.

“Perhaps not,” Holmes retorted, “but your religion is alone, I think, in raising said arguments to an art form.”

Daniels and I both laughed at that, and any remaining tension among the three of us disappeared. I watched as Holmes raised Daniels' hand to his lips, kissing it lightly before setting it down again. “Will you come to Kent?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Just don't say I didn't warn you.”

Holmes winked at him. “Baruch HaShem,” he said, mimicking an expression that Daniels himself often employed. I believe it's Hebrew for 'thank God' or 'praise God' or some such.

I stared at Holmes. There was a soft but intent light in his grey eyes as he regarded Daniels. He had never looked at me quite that way, with that expression that was both loving and piqued. Daniels, I suspected, would remain something of a mystery to him; one he would never penetrate completely. The boy's history and experiences were too foreign to our own. And it did not help that even now Daniels' mask was back in place.

But I am being unfair. I do not believe it was not a mask; not entirely. Our playful, laughing boy existed side by side, I suppose, with our sarcastic, bitter young man.

I sighed as Daniels drifted back to sleep, his head still resting on my shoulder. I continued staring at Holmes as I realised just what I stood to lose.

When Daniels died, I would bury more than another brother. I would lose the part of Holmes that only Daniels could elicit—that part of Holmes that was so intrigued by the young man's foreign culture and skillful mask. That mischievous part of Holmes that liked to tease Daniels about his religion or Shakespeare...that obsessively curious part of him that was driven to unearth more of Daniels' background.

Don't mistake me; of course Holmes would retain his mischief and his obsessive curiosity. But without Daniels, something would be lacking. I shut my eyes, resting my chin on top of Daniels' head. The loss of that part of Holmes, I knew, would be almost as hard to bear as the loss of Daniels himself.

LINK TO PART SEVEN

A Chivalrous Gesture, Part Five

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction (Sherlock Holmes)

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock Holmes

Feedback: Any and all welcome!

Summary: In this sequel to A Masterful Performance, Watson and Daniels work together to convince Holmes to follow-up on a case...

Link to Part One

~

Part Five: John Watson

"Do you know what Holmes needs?" Daniels asked me.

I opened my eyes. I was sitting in a worn but comfortable arm chair, dozing off. Daniels was lying on a settee opposite me, staring up at the ceiling.

"In relation to what?" I asked, pausing only to yawn as I glanced at the clock. We still had a few hours, I noted, before setting off for the gaming hell.

"His boredom. His lack of challenging cases. We'll have this Burnwell business wrapped up tonight, I shouldn't wonder. Or soon enough, at any event. And then what will occupy him?"

"The needle, like as not," I answered grimly.

"Just so," Daniels agreed. "What Holmes needs is a master opponent. Someone who's invariably one step ahead of him...someone with a finger in every criminal pie in London."

“A criminal mastermind?" I said, catching his spirit. "The controlling brain of the underworld?"

"Precisely! You ought to write one up for his entertainment. I read your notes to the Scarlet case; you've got a way with the pen."

I grinned at him, recalling again his small but pivotal role in that case. "We'll need a suitably devilish name for this fellow."

Daniels frowned. "True. What shall it be? Something that sounds morbid, I think."

"Moran?" I ventured.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "That's not quite exalted enough. I suppose it could belong to some sort of assistant, though." He paused, furrowing his brow. "I know! That can be our villain's right hand man. Holmes has you, after all. It's only fair to give his opponent someone he can rely on."

I smiled at that, flattered that he thought of me as Holmes' 'right hand man.' "Then our villain will need a counterpart for you as well," I pointed out.

“But I worked for the other side, remember?” he said, turning his head toward me. “Although when I agreed to pose as that old crone, I didn't realise that my friend had murdered anyone. Not that I quite blame him, though, under the circumstances.”

I cocked my head at him, considering the problem. “Your counterpart shall also work for the other side—which, in this case, would be Holmes. Surely Holmes will need a man on the inside? An informant?”

Daniels laughed and clapped his hands together. “That's perfect! Just perfect. I—”

He broke off, interrupted by a tread on the stairs, which was followed by the sound of a key turning in his lock. I started before realising that it must be Holmes—as, indeed, it was.

So Holmes owned a key to Daniels’ rooms. I suppose I should have been disturbed at this fresh proof of the intimacy between the two men, but I took the revelation in good part. I did, however, raise my eyebrows when Holmes, disposing of his coat and hat, walked over to the settee and leaned down to kiss Daniels lightly on the mouth. Then, after some well-choreographed moves on both their parts, he sat down on the settee, allowing Daniels to lie with his head upon his lap.

It was all so casually done that I found it difficult to take offense. And yet I’ll own to some shock—Holmes and Daniels had never before flaunted their affair in front of me.

“How goes the case?” Holmes asked me, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary.

I blinked before managing a response. “Quite well—did you follow us here?”

“Hardly,” Holmes answered. “Why should I? As I said earlier, I don’t believe it’s possible for you two to bungle this.”

“Could you say that again?” Daniels asked, rolling his eyes. “And try to sound a bit more contemptuous and dismissive this time, please.”

I choked back a laugh at that—and Holmes, to his credit, managed a smile of his own.

“I meant no insult,” he said contritely, looking from Daniels to me. “I did not follow you because I have every confidence in both of you—no doubt you have already acquired information on Burnwell.”

“We have,” Daniels admitted, smiling up at him. “Thanks to the fact that Watson flirted outrageously with Kitty.”

Holmes nodded. “Women are invariably attracted to Watson—I have often used that fact to my advantage during a case. And I am fortunate indeed that no woman has managed to snatch him up yet,” he added, staring directly into my eyes.

It was a perfectly innocent remark, I am sure, and yet I felt myself blushing. I could not help but remember Daniels’ cheerful belief that Holmes was suffering from an unrequited passion for me—and that the two of us should ‘share’ him.

I swallowed as Holmes’ grey eyes continued to bore into mine. At length, however, I forced myself to look away. Surely I was misinterpreting the invitation I had seen in them? Holmes must know that I was no sodomite.

Holmes mumbled something to Daniels. I couldn’t make it out, but whatever it was, it was not in English. It was not in French either, the only other language I knew Holmes to speak fluently. Apparently he’d been picking up another tongue from Daniels. Yiddish or Russian, like as not.

I allowed myself an inner sigh: the bedroom, they say, makes for the best classroom.

Whatever Holmes whispered, it caused Daniels to grin and then to sit up and reach for his boots. “I’m going to check on Kitty and make certain that she’s not pining for you,” he said, sparing me a wink.

A minute or two later he was gone. Holmes and I heard his footfall disappearing down the stairs.

Somehow I managed to look Holmes in the face again. Why was I suddenly nervous, as if we had never spent time alone before? This was my closest friend, my boon companion. There was no excuse for this fluttering in my stomach.

“If—if you have so much confidence in us, why did you seek us out?” I asked, trying to fill in the silence that had fallen between us.

“I did not come to check your progress,” he said softly. There was an uncanny glow to his eyes, I noticed, courtesy of the dying embers in the fireplace. “I came before I could lose the courage to approach you.”

I stared at him. I could not pretend to misunderstand him—his meaning was too plain. It was written on his face, in the way he was leaning toward me and in the tensing of his muscles.

He looked away suddenly. “If I am mistaken in you, Watson,” he said, staring into the fireplace, “simply say the word and I shan’t trouble you again. You are good enough, I think, to forget that I ever allowed my sentiments to run away with me.”

“Holmes, I—” I broke off, confused.

Holmes offered me no help. He continued to stare into the coals of the fireplace instead.

“Oh dear God,” I said at last. “I ought to be telling you that we must both forget this moment, old chap. I don’t know why the words won’t come. I suppose I should blame Daniels—this is his influence, no doubt.”

I was babbling, but Holmes seemed not to mind. “Daniels spoke to you, did he?” he asked, turning back to me. “I was afraid of that.”

I nodded. “Oh yes,” I answered, smiling a little. “He assured me that you’re quite taken with me. And when I ventured my objections, he informed me that there’s more to sodomy than one particular act—so I needn’t let that put me off. And he’s of the opinion that you are far too trying for one lover, so it really would be in the best interests of all concerned if the two of us were to share you.”

Holmes bit back a grin. “I should, perhaps, have warned you that Daniels is not excessively bourgeois in his thinking.”

I laughed outright at that understatement. “No,” I agreed. “But I’ll own that he’s refreshingly honest and forthright. It was the most absurd conversation I’ve ever taken part in—but somehow I can’t hold it against him. On the contrary, I suppose I’m glad to have the matter out in the open.”

I may be mistaken, but I believe Holmes drew in a sharp breath at that. “May I take it, then, that I have not offended you?”

“Of course you haven’t,” I said at once. “Even if I can’t bring myself—damn it, Holmes. I don’t know where I stand in all this, but how can I be anything other than immensely flattered by your attentions?”

He seemed to relax somewhat as he took in my words. “Well, there is no rush, my friend. I’m not pressing you for a decision.”

I cocked my head at him. “You won’t cast Daniels aside, will you?”

Holmes sighed. “You have a small opinion of my honour, I see. No, I have no intention of throwing him over—not even for your sake.”

I grinned. “I’m glad to hear it. You can be quite trying, Holmes. I don’t think I should mind sending you `round to Daniels periodically.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “No doubt the two of you can devise some schedule,” he said dryly.

“Oh, rest easy,” I said. “I imagine Daniels is already working on one.”

He had the grace to laugh at that. “Undoubtedly,” he agreed. Then he paused to hold out his hand to me. “Come here,” he invited.

I stared at his hand for a long moment…if I meant to refuse him utterly, it must be now.

But I did not refuse him. Instead, I let out a rather long, self-deprecating sigh, as if giving in to the inevitable. The next instant my hand was in his…and then somehow I was sitting next to him as he placed his arm around me.

I was afraid that I would blush giddily, like a green girl with her first suitor. I was a man of immense experience, I reminded myself. I had known women on three continents. Why should I be nervous with Holmes? Besides, we would go no further in Daniels’ rooms. Whatever business Holmes and I had—and I was unsure, as of yet, what that business would be—it would take place in Baker Street, in the privacy of our own quarters.

Nothing happened between us that afternoon—I can attest to that. And yet, by the time Daniels returned upstairs, I was leaning back against Holmes with my legs stretched out on the settee.

Daniels bounded in with a triumphant smile on his face. He took little note of the sudden intimacy between Holmes and me, except to give us a vague nod of approval. Obviously he had something of greater import on his mind.

“Moriarty,” he announced. “That’s our man.”

It took me only a moment to catch up with him. “Excellent,” I said with genuine enthusiasm. “Yes, that will do.”

I could sense Holmes furrowing his brow. “Who is this man?” he demanded.

“Your arch-enemy,” Daniels explained with a bow. “Watson and I have just created him. We felt that you needed a master-villain against whom to test your mettle—even if we had to invent him from whole cloth.”

“Sorry we can’t provide you with a real one,” I added.

Holmes, I think, was smiling as he responded. “The greatest schemer of all time and the organiser of every deviltry, I hope.”

“Of course,” I said. “He must be, if he’s to challenge you sufficiently.”

“Hmmm,” Holmes said, resting his chin against the back of my head. “Then you had best give him an innocuous career—all the better to hide his deviltry. He should be a professor, I think. A chair in mathematics, perhaps?”

“Professor Moriarty,” I mused, settling in more comfortably against Holmes. “Yes—that will answer quite well.”

A Chilvarous Gesture, Part Four

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction (Sherlock Holmes)

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock Holmes

Feedback: Any and all welcome!

Summary: In this sequel to A Masterful Performance, Watson and Daniels work together to convince Holmes to follow-up on a case...

Link to Part One

~

Part Four: John Watson

In light of the biting cold, and the fact that we could accomplish nothing further until evening, Daniels and I elected to remain in his rooms for the time being. I felt a twinge of guilt at the thought that Holmes might be standing outside in disguise, shivering as he kept an eye trained for our departure. However, Holmes was no fool. If he was indeed following us, he would find some warm spot.

Daniels and I had already decided on how best to conduct ourselves within the gaming hell. If we were not lucky enough to encounter Burnwell, we would settle down to a game of Faro. We would lose an appropriate amount of coin, thus winning the goodwill of our companions and garnering whatever information they had to offer. It went without saying that I would let Daniels do the talking. I would be of more use when we confronted Burnwell himself.

For now, however, we were settled into a game of chess in front of a blazing fire. Daniels, I'm afraid, was an indifferent player, but he kept me entertained by voicing his opinions on everything from the innocence of Richard III (he was convinced that the last Plantagenet king was the victim of Tudor propaganda) to the likelihood of Irish independence. (He had, in my opinion, a mistakenly romantic view of the Irish cause.)

After I had checkmated him a third time, our conversation turned to our mutual friend. Daniels stood up, fumbled about for his clay pipe, and then bent his head with a look of intense concentration. I smiled at how exactly his posture and expression recalled Holmes, but I wasn't prepared for his voice.

“Observe, friend Watson, the gentleman across the street who is anxiously wringing his hands,” he said, mimicking Holmes so precisely that I nearly bolted from my seat.

“He is lately arrived from Suffolk, I perceive,” Daniels continued, nodding his head toward an imaginary bow window. “And he has come to town alone on some private problem—not even his valet has accompanied him. Note the haphazard knot of his cravat and the mismatched cufflinks.”

I laughed and burst into applause as he finished. “Well done!” I exclaimed.

“Thank you,” he said with a grin and an appropriately deep bow. “I keep hoping that my impression of Holmes will come in handy during one of his cases—but, alas, he has not yet called upon it.”

I nodded sympathetically. I could well imagine that Holmes did not quite appreciate Daniels' impression of him. I fear that Daniels exaggerated the condescending note in our friend's voice...but not by much.

Daniels tossed the pipe aside and settled back into his chair for another game of chess, wherein he continued to plead the justice of the Irish cause. He did not convince me, I fear—but, looking back, I realise that my memories of him on that day are among my favourite. His boyish enthusiasm for his pet causes and utter lack of regard for anything approaching a strategy for chess rendered him all the more charming.

I cannot explain, therefore, why that day should be forever linked in my mind with an event that occurred nearly three years later. And yet, I never think of one without the other. Perhaps it is because I spent the majority of that other day in Daniels' rooms as well...but under such vastly different circumstances.

~

I remember that later day quite clearly: Holmes stood near a wall in Daniels’ rooms, to all appearances staring absently out of the window. But I knew that even in this crisis his long standing habits had not deserted him. He was absorbed by his minute observations of the pedestrians on the street below.

My presence, meanwhile, had not gone undetected. Holmes spoke without bothering to turn toward me. “Will he survive this?”

I stared at him for a moment and then managed a half-hearted smile for this man who was not only my dearest friend, but also my former lover. “He will live,” I said.

“For how long?” Holmes demanded.

I hesitated, wondering how he had guessed. Or had he already known?

He let out an exasperated sigh at my puzzled silence. “Watson, it takes no special genius to guess what drove Daniels—a man who scarcely touches tobacco, let alone laudanum or cocaine—to attempt to end his life with the help of my seven percent solution. He must fear dying by inches. He is far too attached to life to abandon it for any other reason.”

He paused and finally turned to face me. “Is it a cancer? Consumption, perhaps?”

“The latter,” I confessed.

Holmes nodded. “How long does he have?”

“At this point, I can't be certain,” I said gently. “He could linger for years—although I have seldom seen a patient in his condition last more than five. And that, I'm afraid, is rare.”

I paused as I stepped over to my friend in order to lay a hand on his shoulder. “He has been hiding this from us, Holmes. That is why he has been so wary of our company of late.”

Holmes nodded again. His face was oddly blank. “Will he suffer the whole time?”

“Yes,” I owned. “But it won't always be as unbearable as he seems to think. We must convince him that he still has days worth living ahead of him.”

“In a sanitarium?” Holmes demanded. “That is the law now, is it not? We must shut consumptives away?”

I swallowed before answering that. “According to our government, I am supposed to alert the proper authorities when treating a patient with tuberculosis. I will not necessarily do so—but his remaining in London is, I'm afraid, out of the question. You must realize that his condition is contagious. I do not fear it, for I have long been exposed to consumptives, but I cannot promise that you are out of danger. Now, as for the sanitaria, they are not all the scandalous prisons we read of in sensational articles. Some, in fact, offer every luxury—”

“I won't hear of it," Holmes insisted. "I do not fear for myself, Watson. You know the relationship between Daniels and me. I realise now that he has been trying to protect me these past few months. I should have seen through his ruse. But I have been exposed to him regardless; further exposure can scarcely matter. And I would refuse to abandon him in any case.”

I began massaging his shoulder, almost as if we were still lovers. He instinctively allowed me that intimacy.

“If you mean to remain by his side, you will have to leave London,” I pointed out.

“Yes,” he agreed. “And I believe I know the very place. Mycroft has invested in property in Kent. It is not precisely close to town, but it is no great distance either. Better still, it is relatively quiet and secluded. If Daniels and I were to remove there, would you agree to join us periodically?”

“Of course,” I said at once. “I intend to remain his physician—although we may want a man closer at hand in a pinch. But you must understand the circumstances, Holmes. On…on difficult days, he will need carefully regulated doses of morphine.”

I paused, wondering how to make my request without giving offense. An argument between us would serve no useful purpose now. “You must have your wits about you at all times,” I said at last.

He managed a sour smile at that. “Do not fear, Watson,” he said. “The fact that Daniels rifled through my drawers and pocketed my cocaine with the sole intent of employing it to end his life has rendered the drug surprisingly unattractive to me.”

I started at that, wondering why Daniels had lifted the cocaine from Holmes, rather than simply purchasing his own. He abhorred Holmes’ habit as much as did I—was his theft of the drug, and the use he intended for it, one last protest on his part? Or had he simply been so distraught that, once the notion of suicide struck him, he helped himself to whatever was nearest at hand?

I don’t suppose it mattered. I could only hope that, in light of this crisis, the vile stuff would remain distasteful to Holmes.

“You should retain your rooms at Baker Street,” I said softly, bringing us back to the matter at hand.

“It scarcely matters, does it? If Daniels agrees to this, my time will be taken up in Kent. I will worry about new quarters at a more appropriate hour. Fortunately, I am sound enough financially to live indefinitely without new work.”

But I shook my head at that. “Please keep the rooms, Holmes,” I said. “And I advise you to take the occasional case as well—you know how Daniels is. He will despise himself if you abandon your field merely to play the part of his nursemaid. We can make arrangements to ensure that you are not his sole caretaker.”

I watched him open his mouth to protest, so I quickly intervened. “Holmes, Daniels will refuse your offer to house him if you do so at the expense of your work.”

For a moment I thought he would continue to object, but at length he sighed. “That is true,” he acknowledged. “Very well; I’ll keep the rooms for now and we’ll make whatever arrangements you suggest.”

I allowed myself a sigh of relief. However much I admired Holmes’ loyalty, I knew that it was essential for him to maintain his lodgings in Baker Street and to continue his work in some small fashion. I did not believe that Holmes had any experience in the long term care of a dying patient. It was a draining, exhausting venture. Even if Daniels made his peace with his illness, he was likely to put Holmes’ limited patience to the test.

I was still rubbing Holmes’s shoulder, I realised. I hesitated, and then closed the gap between us entirely by pulling him into my arms. He returned the embrace and for a long moment we simply stood there, clinging to each other. And then…then I kissed him, first on his cheek and then on his lips.

It was a slow, lingering kiss. I shut my eyes, needing to taste him and inhale his scent.

You will think me, perhaps, the worst of men—but I did not feel as if I were betraying my vows to my wife. Yes, there was passion in that kiss, for it was not a lack of passion that had driven us apart. But the kiss was not for passion’s sake. We both needed the comfort of it; the warmth and familiarity. And when we broke apart, we both knew that we would not allow matters to go any further.

I looked away from Holmes for a moment. “Daniels is asleep now,” I said. “When he awakens, I will need to speak with him at length.”

Holmes nodded. “After I say a few words to him, I shall give you all the privacy you require.”

I shook my head. “I must speak with him first. I am his physician, Holmes. I’ve no doubt that you’ve a deal to say to him, but he will need the ear and the advice of his doctor before the strictures or sympathy of his lover.”

He sighed and favoured me with another sour smile. “You are quite high-handed today, friend Watson.”

I returned his smile. “I defer to you in most instances, my dear man. But not when it comes to the welfare of my patient.”

“Quite,” Holmes agreed, reaching out to touch my hand briefly. “Very well, I shall make myself scarce when he comes to. Have you any other orders for me, old chap?”

“Only one,” I said, grinning. “I think you had best pour us both a stiff brandy.”

LINK TO PART FIVE

A Chivalrous Gesture, Part Three

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction (Sherlock Holmes)

Rating: PGDisclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock Holmes

Feedback: Any and all welcome!

Summary: In this sequel to A Masterful Performance, Watson and Daniels work together to convince Holmes to follow-up on a case...

Link to Part One

~

It took a supreme act of will on my part, but I resisted the urge to don some disguise and trail Watson and Daniels. No doubt Watson would misinterpret that, believing me too vain to risk being detected by Daniels. But it was no such thing. Why should I be irked to admit that Daniels is my superior in the art of costuming? I might as well be irked to admit that Watson is my superior in the art of medicine.

And, at any event, the problem was absurdly simple. They really had no need for my expertise. Daniels had the connexions to find a man such as Burnwell—and Watson would know how to handle Burnwell once they located him.

I stood by the bow window, puffing thoughtfully at my pipe. I did not fear Watson and Daniels bungling the case—but I did fear what Daniels might say to Watson in an unguarded moment.

I frowned as I stared out at Baker Street. The February snow had melted, but the chill in the air was obvious from the way men huddled in their coats as they hurried by. I sighed and allowed myself to sink into a chair.

Daniels was of the opinion that I should pursue Watson in earnest. He imagined that the three of us could settle into an amicable arrangement. And Daniels, being Daniels, was quite capable of confiding in Watson and sharing this notion of his. He is quite persuasive, however. Perhaps he would even sway Watson—provided that Watson was not too much addicted to the fair sex and provided that Watson could master his jealousy.

I continued to stare out the window. It was pointless to consider the latter problem before tackling the former. I had no doubt that I could overcome Watson's penchant for women in the short run. But that was the rub, wasn't it? And that was the reason that I had not pursued the good doctor before I had ever met Daniels. I was too afraid that Watson would, ultimately, prove dissatisfied with my companionship and would exchange it for the comforts of domesticity.

I harbored no such fears with Daniels. Frankly, that lad wouldn't know what to do with a wife. It was no wonder he had fled from his match-making parents.

I paused in my thoughts to smile at that. I could guess how much it had cost Daniels to abandon the tight knit community of his childhood. But it was impossible to imagine such a bohemian soul making a satisfactory husband and father.

Watson, on the hand...

Daniels understood the difficulties of my position. I could seduce Watson. I was certain of that. But holding him was a different matter. And even if I could hold him, I had no intention of throwing Daniels over to do so.

Daniels was convinced of the contrary; he feared that I would drop him in an instant for Watson's sake. I shan't comment on that unflattering view of my character and honor—a view which, incidentally, Watson shared. Watson once had the audacity to lecture me on my affair with Daniels, insisting that I had best not be trifling with the boy.

What a very pretty opinion both men have of me.

I sighed again and decided to venture out into the cold. With neither Watson nor Daniels looking over my shoulder, it was an ideal time to restock my supply of cocaine. I had not indulged myself since the unfortunate incident in Daniels' rooms, but I needed the reassurance of having my seven percent solution on hand—even if it remained stuffed in a drawer.

And perhaps I would avail myself of a visit to my brother as well. I could still find him in his rooms on this day and at this hour.

~

“Are you still involved with that Jew?” Mycroft asked as soon as I seated myself in the chair opposite him.

I cocked my head at my brother, wondering if he recognised the irony of his words. Perhaps his lack of physical exercise had finally addled his brain. “A pretty comment, considering the scorn that our own religion faces,” I said dryly.

He glared at me. Our family's Catholicism is a source of embarrassment for him. I do not believe it would trouble him so much if we'd had the sense to be born to one of England's old Catholic families. There's a certain dignity, after all, to the families that clung to their papist faith in the teeth of Henry VIII and Elizabeth. But our Catholicism is of recent import—it came to us courtesy of our mother's French blood—and Mycroft finds that fact intolerable.

His disdain was quite illogical, however. We've never suffered because of our cradle faith. We've never even had cause to advertise it; neither of us, I'm afraid, is particularly devout.

“Very well,” Mycroft said, acknowledging the hit with a snort. “To what do I owe this visit?”

I hesitated. “I find myself in need of advice.”

“On a case? Pray tell me the particulars.”

“No,” I said. “Not on a case. On a personal matter.”

He stared at me for a long moment. There was a certain amount of distaste in his sharp eyes. I knew he preferred me to keep my private affairs private. In general I strove to comply—but there was no one else I could turn to on this matter.

“I can guess something of your entanglements,” he said at last. “I've heard you speak at length about Dr. Watson. I know that you hold him in high regard. And you were, ah, kind enough to introduce me to Daniels. I'll admit that he has a certain charm. You are no doubt caught in some tawdry triangle.”

“It's not quite as bad as that,” I assured him, allowing myself a small smile. “Not yet, at all events. I haven't approached Watson—am I mad to consider such a thing?”

“I fail to see why you should,” he said, regarding me steadily. “You seem content with Daniels. And, frankly, Dr. Watson does not sound like suitable prey for your tastes.”

I considered that as I helped myself to a cigarette from a case within reach. “I could win Watson over.”

He raised his eyebrows at me. “But why bother when you have Daniels?”

“Oh, Daniels is eminently reasonable. He assured me that he's willing to share.”

It is not often that I manage to shock Mycroft—but on this occasion I do believe he came near to dropping his jaw. He opened his mouth to speak, but then abruptly shut it again.

I gave him a warning look. “If you say one word about our sainted parents rolling over in their graves, I shall be forced to kill you,” I informed him as I lit the cigarette.

That brought an appreciative grin to his face. “I shouldn't dream of it,” he assured me. “But to answer your question, Sherlock, I must say that you would be mad to, er, attempt to sway Watson.”

He paused, apparently wishing to be cautious. That gave me some indication of his seriousness; in general, Mycroft did not bother to spare my feelings with kind words.

“This Watson of yours sounds like the sort of chap who will leave you as soon as some pretty chit throws her handkerchief at him,” he said. “I doubt there's any fear of that with Daniels. And why should you wish the complication of a third party? You really ought to be satisfied. Daniels is intelligent enough not to bore you and discreet enough not to endanger your reputation. So I must ask you: why risk a bird in the hand?”

This was excellent advice—and quite in keeping with my own thoughts. I thanked Mycroft, rose from my chair and took my leave of him fully intending to heed his words. But by the time I reached Baker Street I knew that I would ignore his strictures.

The stupidity of that decision was rivaled only by my continued indulgence in cocaine. Looking back, I can scarcely credit the fact that I was such a fool. I had the friendship of one man, the love of the other and the devotion of both. Why had I not been satisfied?

Now I had lost both men—Daniels to that miserable, wasting disease and Watson to Miss Mary Morstan.

But I flatter myself. Perhaps my decision that day made no difference one way or the other. There was nothing Watson or I could have done to save Daniels, though God knows we did everything in our power.

And as for Watson...well, it wasn't jealousy of Daniels that drove him to take a wife. It was, on the contrary, the less admirable aspects of my own character.

LINK TO PART FOUR

A Chivalrous Gesture, Part Two

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction (Sherlock Holmes)

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock Holmes

Feedback: Any and all welcome!

Summary: In this sequel to A Masterful Performance, Watson and Daniels work together to convince Holmes to follow-up on a case...

Link to Part One

~

Part Two: John Watson

Despite the chill wind biting at us, Daniels was in high spirits as we hailed a cab and made our way to his digs in Covent Garden. I shared his enthusiasm and wondered how long it would take Holmes to don some disguise and follow us. There was, of course, the possibility that he would refuse to do so; however, in that case, I believe Holmes would deign to find the girl himself—if only to prove that Daniels and I would make for utterly incompetent and slothful detectives. The end result, therefore, would be the same. The girl would be returned to her family.

I glanced at Daniels, noting the gleam of mischief in his dark eyes. He liked nothing better, I think, than to provide some sport for Holmes. And I suspect he was looking forward to penetrating whatever disguise Holmes selected. Even Holmes acknowledged Daniels as his superior in the art of disguise; indeed, Holmes had learned most of his ruses from this young man.

It pained Holmes, I believe, that Daniels had bested him during the course of his investigation into what I termed A Study in Scarlet. Disguised as an elderly crone, Daniels had tricked Holmes and led him on a wild goose chase. Holmes, no doubt, still intended to repay his lover in the same coin.

I watched this rivalry with a detached and amused interest. In the matter of disguises and performances, I would place my money on Daniels. For Holmes, disguises are a necessary and entertaining aspect of the great art of detective work. For Daniels, the costume is itself a work of art.

When we reached Daniels' building, he brought us straight to Kitty's rooms. She was a friend and confidant to Daniels who had once done a good turn for Holmes. She was also a well-connected courtesan who might have a passing acquaintance with a libertine such as Burnwell. I believed her to be trustworthy and so offered no objections to laying our case before her.

Holmes, of course, would guess that we would turn to Kitty. But that couldn't be helped.

She was, I suppose, part of the 'disreputable company' that Daniels had warned me of. However, I wondered if Daniels himself was not showing his own naiveté; did he think that I had served so long in the army without growing acquainted—sometimes intimately, I fear—with prostitutes? I was therefore able to take my ease in what served as her drawing room.

She was a handsome woman, if not a beautiful one. Her hair was an improbable shade of red, her face strong boned and determined and her blue eyes were searching and direct.

"Oh yes," she told us, after hearing the facts of the case, "I'm acquainted with Burnwell. He's a nasty piece of work—any girl running off with him will have cause to regret it, I'd say."

“Have you heard of his whereabouts lately?” I asked.

She gave me a warm and almost inviting smile, which caused Daniels to narrow his eyes at me. “I don't know where he'd choose to rusticate,” she said, “but he don't stay away from his haunts for long.”

“Do you know which places he frequents?” I pressed her.

She hesitated, but I gave her an encouraging smile.

“Well, there's Genevieve's place. Not her real name, of course. It's, well, forgive me, Doctor. It's a gaming hell and brothel,” she said, her honey voice dripping with an apology as she placed her hand on top of mine. “It's not far from here.”

I smiled back at her and squeezed her hand slightly in gratitude. Daniels' eyebrows flew up at that. He held his peace, however, until we were inside his own rooms.

“I underestimated you,” he said without preamble. “You were flirting with Kitty—positively flirting!”

I bit back a smile. I was happy to prove to Daniels that I was not quite the dull, respectable chap he apparently thought me. “My dear fellow, you needn't look so shocked,” I said as I tossed my hat and coat onto one of his chairs. “It's not the first time I've ever flirted, I assure you. She's a handsome woman—and, besides, we needed her information.”

“She would have given that to me regardless,” he snapped, tossing his own coat aside. “There was no call for such a display.”

I must confess that I was hard-pressed not to laugh at Daniels' reaction. The matter couldn't possibly concern him, after all. “Why the devil do you care?” I asked him.

That brought him up short. “I don't,” he said. “It's no affair of mine—in fact, if I had any sense, I'd be throwing you at every respectable female in the vicinity.”

I stared at him. However accomplished a performer Daniels was, at times he would speak whatever thought was foremost in his mind, without troubling to edit his words. This was undoubtedly such a moment.

“Why?” I asked. “What possible advantage could you gain?”

He waved his hand at me in a dismissive fashion as he collapsed into an armchair. “Don't pay me any mind,” he told me. “I'm speaking out of turn. We'll have to wait till this evening before we stumble into Genevieve's. How should we approach this? I suppose we can lose some money at Faro and hope to pick up some gossip.”

“Are you hoping to marry me off,” I persisted, “and move into Baker Street in my stead?”

He rolled his eyes at that. “Nothing would induce me to move to Baker Street,” he said. “Holmes and I have enough sense to keep a respectable distance between us—besides, I shouldn't stand for all his experiments, let alone his other eccentricities. You, my friend, are the only man alive who can tolerate Holmes at such close quarters.”

I smiled faintly at that, somewhat relieved. I had accepted Daniels as Holmes' companion. I had even come to like the fellow. In fact, I now considered him a friend...and yet I had no desire to see him supplant me. But if Daniels had no mind to share Holmes' digs, how would he benefit from throwing me at every respectable female? Could he possibly believe that Holmes viewed me in any light other than friendship? Surely not.

It would be wise to let the matter drop, I told myself. And so I cannot explain how it is that my mouth opened and seemed to speak of its own accord.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Daniels,” I told him as I took a chair opposite his.

He regarded me steadily for a moment. This time, I could see, he meant to choose his words carefully.

At length he shrugged. “I suppose we might as well have this out. Holmes would throw me over in an instant if you gave him any cause to hope,” he explained. “Unless, of course, you could stomach sharing him.”

I stared at him, astonished and yet—yet somehow flattered. Daniels had misread Holmes, of course. Nonetheless, Holmes must think highly of me, indeed, to have left his lover with that impression. That was gratifying, for Holmes was not a demonstrative man. He rarely expressed his appreciation either for my assistance with his cases or for my efforts in chronicling them.

“I think you misinterpret Holmes' regard for me,” I said with a gentle smile.

“I do no such thing,” Daniels assured me, giving me a look that was somehow torn between misery and amusement. “Why can't you see that he's mad for you?”

The thought of Holmes being mad for anyone almost set me laughing. There never was such a dispassionate man in the whole history of creation.

Daniels noted my reaction and rolled his eyes again. “Very well, it's better for me that you don't believe me.”

“I'm sorry, my friend,” I said, preserving what I fancied was an admirable calm. “It's difficult to imagine Holmes suffering from an unrequited passion. And, even if that were the case, he would find himself disappointed in me. I enjoy female companionship and, forgive me, but I cannot stomach even the thought of the act of sodomy.”

“Enjoying female companionship would not preclude you from also enjoying Holmes as a companion,” Daniels said, cocking his head at me. “And I doubt Holmes cares if you engage in one particular act. Sodomy is not limited to that, I assure you.”

I blushed at that. “Daniels—”

“Could you stomach sharing him?” Daniels persisted. “It'd be for your own good—I promise you that. We both adore him but we both know how trying he can be at times.”

I finally collapsed into laughter. The entire conversation was past saving—and the fact that Daniels was treating this as an ordinary, everyday chat only heightened its absurdity. But the poor fellow was in earnest. It was rather touching, I thought, that he cared enough for Holmes to play second fiddle to me. And since he had misread Holmes entirely, it would cost me nothing to reassure him.

“If ever Holmes should declare his undying passion for me—and if ever I feel compelled to return it—I'll be certain to share him with you,” I said, still laughing. “I daresay I'd need a holiday from him now and then.”

Daniels grinned back at me. “Just so. You can send him 'round here whenever you've had enough—that'll prevent you from strangling him.”

“Quite,” I agreed. But I still did not take the matter seriously and therefore did not consider the weight behind my words. I was too busy regretting the fact that I could not share this absurd conversation with Holmes himself. Surely he would find it just as amusing as I had.

Link to Part Three

A Chivalrous Gesture, Part One

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction (Sherlock Holmes)

Rating: PG

Summary: In this sequel to A Masterful Performance, Watson and Daniels work together to convince Holmes to follow-up on a case...

~

Part One: John Watson

The maid had just laid breakfast upon the table when Jonathan Daniels' voice came wafting into our rooms at Baker Street. I found, to my relief, that I had no urge to cringe. I suppose that meant that I was growing used to the young actor.

Well, why not? He had warm, frank manners, a sharp mind and a surprising talent for discretion. If Holmes must be cursed with this unnatural penchant for his own sex, he could do far worse than Daniels for a companion.

I was pleased with my reaction, to own the truth. It meant I was recovering from my irrational bout of jealousy. Daniels, after all, had in no way affected the friendship I enjoyed with Holmes.

From what I could hear, Daniels was greeting Mrs. Hudson and feeding her a pretty and entirely inappropriate compliment. Small wonder that he had made such a conquest of the woman. At length he told her that he would show himself up, and the next instant he was bounding through our door. I couldn't help but smile at this informality, so I waved him into a chair opposite me at the table.

“Holmes is still asleep?” he asked as he seated himself and reached for a piece of bread.

I nodded. “He was up late last night—I heard his fiddle until at least three in the morning.”

“Oy,” Daniels said, rolling his eyes and lapsing into what I assumed was Yiddish. “He won't be up anytime soon then. Did you talk him into the case?”

He did not refer to a formal case; rather, both Daniels and I felt that Holmes should continue to pursue the loose threads of his last case, which I had taken to calling The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet. Holmes had restored missing jewels to a coronet, thus proving the innocence of young Arthur Holder. But Holder's cousin had run off with the true perpetrator—a rakehell by the name of Sir George Burnwell—and the young man wished Holmes to discover her whereabouts and return her home. This Holmes steadfastly refused to do.

“No,” I answered, shaking my head. “He's still being abnormally stubborn about this.”

“It is not a matter of stubbornness,” Holmes called out from his bedroom. Daniels and I exchanged glances. Apparently our friend had woken up at a reasonable hour after all.

Holmes soon made his way to the breakfast table, with one hand stuffed in the pocket of his dressing gown and the other poised to lecture the pair of us. “The young woman in question assisted in a crime and ran off with a scoundrel of her own free will. Why should I lift a finger to find her?”

Daniels shrugged, grinning up at him. “Chivalry?”

“Chivalry will have Arthur Holder eating out of her hand,” Holmes snapped. “That boy can do better.”

I smiled at that. “Why Holmes, you're taking an almost paternal interest in young Holder,” I said. “I find it most affecting.”

“On the contrary, Watson, I don't expect to see the lad again,” he retorted, seating himself. “He'll leave off pestering us here sooner or later, I should think.” He then applied himself to his breakfast, as if to signify that the conversation was at an end.

But I was not content to leave matters there and, judging by the look he shot me, neither was Daniels. Both young Holder and his father were frantic to find the girl. While I understood Holmes' fears on Holder's behalf, I did not think we should allow them to condemn the poor girl to whatever wretched life she was living until Burnwell tired of her.

But how to convince Holmes? The answer struck me as I glanced at Daniels. I had to choke back a smile at the thought of it.

“Daniels,” I said, turning to our guest, “have you any plans for today or tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “None at all—I'm at liberty for now. My run in the West End is finished. No new parts have come my way, but I'll be lending a new company a hand with costuming in a week or two.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Perhaps we should look into the matter ourselves.”

“That's a brilliant notion! We ought to be able to track down this Burnwell fellow, wherever he's rusticating.”

Holmes paused midway while pouring his tea and looked from one of us to the other. “The two of you mean to take this case?”

Daniels nodded enthusiastically. “Yes,” he said. “We'll start by talking to some of my fellows. Someone in the West End is bound to know Burnwell. He sounds like the type who fancies actresses.”

“And I shall do my utmost to apply your methods,” I assured Holmes. “Meanwhile, we'll have to hope that once we find the girl, Holder will have outgrown his wish to marry her.”

Holmes' grey eyes continued to flicker back and forth between us before he finally shrugged to indicate his resignation. “Very well. It is a simple enough matter; perhaps even you two can manage not to bungle it.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Daniels said dryly, but without suppressing the twinkle in his eye.

Holmes did not grace that with a response. “Pray do not let me detain you,” he told us instead as he rose from the table and took himself back to his bedroom.

Daniels leaned over and whispered into my ear. “I suppose you're hoping that he'll follow us. And that he won't be able to resist the urge to set us straight when we do bungle the thing?”

I nodded. “Just so. Shall we stall here and give him time to don a disguise?”

But the actor shook his head judiciously. “No, let's be off,” he said. “No point in making it too easy for him.” He paused and looked me over, going so far as to raise his eyebrows at me. “I hope you don't mind keeping some disreputable company today.”

I nearly sighed at that. I knew that compared to two such Bohemian souls as Holmes and Daniels, I was painfully respectable. “Not at all,” I retorted. “Between you and Holmes, I've had plenty of practise.”

LINK TO PART TWO

A Masterful Performance, Part Seven

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction; Sherlock Holmes; Holmes-Watson pre-slash.

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock Holmes

Feedback: Any and all welcome!

Summary: Holmes tracks down the young man who played him for a fool in A Study in Scarlet...

LINK TO PART ONE

~

Part Seven: Sherlock Holmes

Watson took his leave of us shortly after Daniels returned. He thanked Daniels for the invitation to remain—a genuine invitation, as far as I could tell—but insisted on returning to our rooms in Baker Street. He promised to return on the morrow, however, to make note of my progress.

Daniels, meanwhile, brought in a tray for me that contained a bowl of broth. I frowned at it. “I have Kitty to thank for this, I suppose,” I said.

“You do indeed,” he said, smiling. “And you’d best eat it. I won’t be able to face her if you don’t.”

“Very well,” I said, meekly picking up the spoon.

He gave me a wink and sat down on the edge of the bed, making it clear that I was to stomach the whole. I smiled wryly at him and forced it down. I'll own that the taste was acceptable, but I had no appetite.

He took the tray out when I finished and then returned to my side. “Shall I stay? I can read to you, if you’d like.”

I stared at him. He had spoken lightly, allowing me the option of privacy. But did he wish to stay? Watson would have—and that desire would have been written plainly on his face. But I could not read Daniels so easily. He was too accomplished an actor.

I sighed. This cheerful demeanor of his must mask some anger. Nonetheless, I reached out and took hold of his arm.

"Stay," I said, "Though I can't promise to remain awake for long." My voice, I noticed, was half pleading and half apprehensive, but I managed another wan smile. “I should think that you’d be washing your hands of me by now. I apologise, Jonathan. I have no excuse for becoming such a burden.”

He leaned over and kissed me, as if to assure me that we were not at an end. Then he changed into his night gown and crawled into bed beside me. I put my arm around him, allowing him to rest his head against my chest, and soon drifted off to sleep.

~

I awoke with an almost restless, feverish energy. Daniels was sound asleep, but I disentangled myself from him without disturbing him and crept out of bed. I then shrugged myself into my dressing gown and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind me.

I lit two lamps and then considered Daniel's living quarters, as if taking stock of them for the first time. They were crammed with books. Books on shelves, books piled on the floor, books spilling over, it seemed, from every corner. Most of these books were in English, but there was a Hebrew Bible, a Hebrew prayerbook—a Siddur, I believe it's called—and what I presumed were excerpts from the Talmud. There were also a few miscellaneous books in German and Russian. Daniels had an admirable talent for languages.

Which was his native tongue? I was fairly certain that he was born in Russia. (I had not asked him outright, for I was determined to solve this mystery on my own.) Presumably Russian was his first language, unless he had grown up speaking Yiddish instead. Did Jews in Russia speak Yiddish? Daniels, at any event, spoke it fluently. I'd heard him do so on numerous occasions and had already learned several colorful phrases from him.

As for the rest of the books—Shakespeare and commentaries on Shakespeare made up the majority of them. But there were plenty of other plays and novels, a few histories, folk tales and odds and ends that must have captured his fancy at one point or another.

I furrowed my brow as I pulled my cigarette box out of my pocket. Daniels was an intriguing fellow; he would never bore me. I expected to continue our arrangement for as long as he would tolerate me. Watson was quite unjust to believe that I was trifling with the lad.

I shut my eyes at the thought of Watson as I sank down into a shabby arm chair. He could scarcely stomach the thought of sodomy, poor fellow—and yet he had come immediately upon hearing that I had taken ill. I picked out a cigarette and lit it, wishing I had my pipe.

Why had I insisted on introducing Watson to Daniels in the first place? Why had I considered it a point of honour that I not hide Daniels from him? I frowned, trying to come up with a convincing—

“Why are you not in bed?”

I started at that. I had not heard Daniels open the bedroom door. He was was standing on the threshold, however, eyeing me with concern.

“I was restless, my dear fellow. Come, sit down.”

He folded his arms across his chest instead and leaned sideways against the door frame. “You haven't taken more of that wretched solution, have you?”

“No,” I assured him, shaking my head. “I'm not that much a fool.”

He managed a smile at that and then took a seat opposite of me. His face was not quite as cheerful as it had been earlier, however. Something was troubling him. Well, perhaps he was ready to give free rein to his anger. I certainly deserved the brunt of it.

“What's wrong, Jonathan?” I asked, keeping my voice soft as I continued to smoke.

He cocked his head at me. “Do you know that when you call me Jonathan, it doesn't sound nearly as intimate as when you say Watson?”

I believe I let out a long-suffering sigh at that point. “Daniels, I beg you. Watson is quite maudlin enough for the two of you—”

“It's not my fault that you have a penchant for sentimental men,” he retorted, grinning suddenly.

I glared at him, but I could not argue the truth of that statement. I certainly seemed to surround myself with such men.

“Holmes,” Daniels continued, looking me straight in the eye, “I've spent the past few weeks trying to convince myself that you and Watson regard each other as brothers. But that's not the case, is it?”

I held his gaze, but some moments passed before I answered his question. “I believe that is how Watson regards our relationship,” I said at length.

He nodded. “That's what I thought too...until today. Let's be honest, shall we? If that respectable doctor of yours were to confess himself a sodomite tomorrow, you'd have no more use for me.”

I looked away from him. “Daniels—”

“It's all right,” he said. “I'm not offended. I can stand the truth.”

I looked back at him. He did not appear to be crushed—quite the opposite. He was taking this in very good part. And yet I knew that I was incapable of penetrating any mask he chose to don. It was quite possible that I was witnessing a masterful performance.

“Are you finished with me?” I asked.

“No,” he said at once. “I'll take you on any terms, Holmes, and for as long as you please. If it must end when Watson comes to his senses...” he shrugged as his words trailed off. “Besides,” he added at length, “I'm not the jealous sort. I'd be perfectly willing to share you.”

I paled at that. Not from any shock on my part, but from imagining Watson's reaction to such a suggestion. I thought it highly improbable that my respectable doctor would ever declare himself a sodomite—but if he did so, he would insist on remaining as respectable as possible.

“While I might countenance such an arrangement, I fear that would be asking too much of Watson,” I said, sparing Daniels another wry smile.

He nodded. “I gathered that,” he admitted. Then he stood up and held out a hand to me. “Now get rid of that cigarette and come back to bed,” he ordered. “I may not have you for long, but I intend to take good care of you while I do.”

I obligingly put the cigarette out. “Are you sure of this, Daniels?”

“Yes,” he said, still holding out his hand to me. “And don't worry: I won't bore you with maudlin tears when it ends.”

Of course not, I thought to myself. You would never allow that mask of yours to slip. Your performance must remain in tact at all costs.

But out loud I said nothing. I merely accepted his hand and returned with him to bed.

~The End~


I hope you enjoyed this! I'm planning at least one sequel...

A Masterful Performance, Part Six

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction; Sherlock Holmes; Holmes-Watson pre-slash.

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock Holmes

Feedback: Any and all welcome!

Summary: Holmes tracks down the young man who played him for a fool in A Study in Scarlet...

LINK TO PART ONE

~

Part Six: John Watson

I was frantic by the time we rushed into Daniels' rooms. The symptoms he had described—a low heartbeat, a forehead as cold as ice—were the opposite of what I expected. Holmes' seven-percent solution often set his pulse racing and usually made him feverish. But Daniels had witnessed the aftermath of his injection, I reminded myself. I swore under my breath, hoping that Holmes had caused himself no lasting damage.

Holmes was dangerously still when I charged into the bedroom. I took his wrist in my hand, feeling for his pulse. Daniels was right: it was faint. Moreover, his breath was shallow. I frowned and wrinkled my nose. My poor friend had soiled his sheets, I realised.

"What can I do?" Daniels asked, hovering at the threshold. He had just dismissed a woman named 'Kitty,' who had apparently been looking after Holmes in his absence.

I gave him a sharp glance, trying to judge how much use he would be in this situation. "Have you a fresh gown for him?" I asked. "And fresh linens?"

He nodded and promptly fetched the materials from a wardrobe in the room. I wanted to treat Holmes immediately, however, so after Daniels set the items aside, I sent him on an errand. I can't remember what I asked him to acquire; I just wanted him out of my way while I saw to my patient.

I'll own that I feared the worse. It was quite possible that Holmes had taken a stroke. True, his face did not exhibit the tell tale signs, but that did not preclude the possibility.

I tended to Holmes to the best of my abilities, chiding him as I did so. This habit was of his was going to be the death of him; perhaps not today, but some other time. He did not wake up for my lecture and so presumably did not benefit from it, but the act of taking him to task improved my temper regardless.

~

When Daniels returned, we bathed and changed Holmes together, making him as comfortable as possible. For the time being, there was nothing more to be done. His pulse was still fainter than I liked, but at least it was steady. And his body was no longer so shockingly cold. He had not yet woken up, but I had hopes that he would soon do so.

I stepped outside the room with Daniels. He turned to me with a face that was sick with fear. "Will he be all right?" he asked.

I sighed. There were many possible answers to that question. “I expect him to make a full recovery,” I told him, “but I can't be certain. We'll know more soon.”

He stared at me with an accusation in his eyes—he knew that I was being deliberately vague. I sighed again. Holmes assures me that I have no talent for deception.

“Daniels,” I said, looking him in the eye, “I'm answering you as honestly as I can without mentioning all the ghastly possibilities. I believe he will recover, but I can't be sure of it.”

He nodded. “I see,” he managed. “Please sit down, Doctor. What can I get you? Port? Brandy?”

“A brandy would be most welcome,” I said as I sank into a shabby but plump and comfortable chair.

I studied him as he poured a glass for me. He was deeply concerned for Holmes—more concerned, in my opinion, than Holmes deserved. That may sound harsh, but I was still furious with my friend. Furious, frantic, upset, worried...I paused long enough to spare myself a wry smile. What would Holmes make of my emotional state?

I sighed and turned my attention back to Daniels. I had not known, until today, that one man could fall in love with another. That they could lust after one another, that there could be a friendship between them—that I understood. But that a man could love another man as he would love his wife...this was an utterly new thought to me.

It was one that did not sit well, especially when it came to Holmes and Daniels.

Why did I feel so ill at ease with the notion? If Holmes must be afflicted with this unnatural attraction to his own sex, then a young man like Daniels was precisely what I should wish for him. Daniels was intelligent, discreet and, apparently, passionately in love with my friend. And yet I still couldn't stomach the thought of them together.

I did not object to the fact that Daniels was a Jew, I assured myself. He might have been a Hindu for all I cared. Nor did I look askance at his choice of profession; I could see how an actor would be of infinite use to Holmes. No, I had no objections to Daniels at all...except that he might rob me of my dearest friend.

I swallowed at that as Daniels handed me the brandy. I had no cause for jealousy, I reminded myself. I had no claim on Holmes but friendship—and surely Daniels had no intention of denying that claim. He had made no move to separate Holmes from me, after all. Quite the contrary.

Daniels seemed oblivious to my thoughts. He flopped into a chair near mine and gave me a half-hearted grin. “Do you go through this with him often?” he asked.

“No,” I answered, trying for a small smile myself. “As I said earlier, Holmes can go for months without touching the needle.”

“And when he does indulge, is he careful about the dosage?” Daniels persisted.

I did smile at that—a sour smile, I'm afraid. “It's not the dosage,” I explained after a gulp of the brandy. “The affects of cocaine are unpredictable.” I paused, cocking my head at him. “Are you prepared to deal with this situation again, if necessary?”

“Yes,” he answered. “But I'd rather he found some other relief from his boredom. We'll have to convince him of the harm he's doing to himself.”

I had to force myself not to roll my eyes heavenward. “I've warned him of that over and over,” I said, setting the glass down. “I can't understand why someone who prides himself on his logic insists on taking such a foolish risk—”

I broke off, for Holmes himself had appeared at the threshold of the bedroom door. I rose at once to assist him, guessing the extreme effort he was expending.

Daniels had his back to Holmes, but he twisted around as soon as he caught sight of my expression and then jumped to his feet. We each rushed to Holmes' side and soon had our arms under his shoulders. Fortunately he did not resist us as we guided him back to bed.

He smiled wanly at Daniels as I put another blanket on top of him. “Jonathan,” he said, “I need a word with Watson.”

At first I thought Daniels would object—he was anxious to remain at his lover's side. But after exchanging a long look with Holmes, he relented. “I'll go out and scrounge up some food for us,” he said, his voice measured and eminently reasonable. “I haven't much here, and we'll all be famished soon.”

And with that he took his leave of us. I waited to hear him exit the rooms and then turned back to Holmes.

He sighed and grasped my hand. “I suppose I should thank you for coming, old man,” he said.

“Would you have preferred to have gone untreated?” I answered coldly. I could not quite disguise my relief, however. His faculties appeared to be in tact.

He gave me a thin smile. “I shall listen to whatever lecture you think appropriate, my good fellow, in due course. But for now—” he shrugged and let his voice trail off.

I withdrew my hand from his and began to pace the room. He watched me for a moment and then stared toward the window, allowing the silence between us to grow painful.

“I hope you are not toying with that young man,” I said at last, resolutely stopping myself from facing him. “Whatever your intentions might be, Holmes, I assure you that Daniels is in earnest.”

It was an outrageous thing to say. The matter was no business of mine. And yet, to a certain extent, Daniels had made it my business. He had looked to me for reassurance.

Another long silence fell between us. “I'm not trifling with him, Watson,” Holmes said, finally deigning to answer me. “We deal rather well together. If he'll still have me, I see no reason to discontinue our association.”

“Association?” I said with a short laugh. “Holmes, that fellow is in love with you.”

My friend did not bother to hide the exasperation in his voice. “Must you be so maudlin? There's none of that romantic twaddle between us. Kindly rid yourself of the notion that we have nothing better to do than write sonnets to each other's eyebrows.”

I bit back a smile at that as I turned toward him. “I imagine he's quoted Shakespeare's sonnets to you,” I said ruefully, thinking of the ample suggestions of sodomy in them. “They would certainly be appropriate.”

Holmes stared at me for a long moment and then burst out laughing. “Well done, old fellow,” he said appreciatively.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn't help but grin back at him as I made my way to the bed. “You're looking better,” I commented, seating myself at his side. “I believe you've escaped disaster yet again...but you won't always.”

“I'm aware of that,” he owned. “Very well, I shall make an effort to find another source of stimulation.” He paused and grasped my hand again. “Nothing has changed, Watson.”

I knew he was not referring to the cocaine, but to our friendship. And I also knew that he was mistaken; because of Daniels, things between us had changed irrevocably. I could not yet decipher the nature of that change, but I could sense it regardless.

However, even I was not maudlin enough to raise this point with Holmes—and so I let it pass.


LINK TO PART SEVEN

A Masterful Performance, Part Five

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction; Sherlock Holmes; Holmes-Watson pre-slash.

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock Holmes

Feedback: Any and all welcome!

Summary: Holmes tracks down the young man who played him for a fool in A Study in Scarlet...

LINK TO PART ONE

~

Part Five: Jonathan Daniels

At some point—just as the maid was ushering me up to 221B, actually—it occurred to me that things might be a bit awkward between myself and John Watson. I even began to worry that I'd made too much of Holmes' illness. Perhaps he would recover on his own. But Kitty had been just as concerned as I was, I reminded myself. And she knew a thing or two about cocaine.

Watson's face paled as soon as he saw me. He must have guessed that I wasn't paying a social call. He waited just long enough for the maid to shut the door behind her before taking a step toward me.

"What's happened?” he demanded.

"It's Holmes. He's...he's unwell. He injected himself with cocaine—"

But Watson was already collecting his coat, hat and bag.

"I have a cab waiting for us," I continued.

He spared me a brusque nod and headed for the door. I followed him outside, back towards the hansom. Then I took my seat next to him without saying a word.

~

The ride back to my rooms was even worse than I anticipated. For the first few minutes, Watson stared straight ahead, refusing to spare me even a glance. I might as well have squeezed in with the driver up in the back—he'd have been happier with my company.

But at length the good doctor forced himself to speak. “Is Holmes in the habit of taking cocaine in your quarters?" he asked.

My eyebrows shot up at that accusation. Did he think I was operating an opium den? "No! I didn't know he took the stuff until today. I don't bother with drugs or chemicals of any sort if I can help it."

Watson finally turned his head toward me. He stared at me for a long moment, apparently evaluating the truth of my statement. "I see," he said at last. "I should have realized that, of course. Holmes says you scarcely even take tobacco."

I sighed and looked away. "Is this a regular habit of his?"

He shook his head, relaxing a bit as he managed to ignore the jostling of the hansom. "No. Holmes—Holmes can go for months without resorting to the needle. However, he grows bored when there's no challenging case at hand."

I gave him a sharp look. "You think he's bored of me?"

I shouldn't have said that—I knew that as soon as the words left my mouth. Watson was doing his utmost to ignore my affair with Holmes, but I had gone and thrown it in his face. Not well done of me, was it?

But I couldn't help myself. I was still fascinated by Holmes and I expected to remain so. Everything about the man captivated me. His passion for justice, his keen and cutting observations, his talent and skill in his profession, the way he could converse at length on obscure topics—even if he didn't know a damn thing about more conventional ones.

And then there were those piercing grey eyes of his...

No, I would never grow tired of Holmes. But I had to face the possibility that I was only a temporary amusement; something to pass the time between cases. Perhaps that's not what Holmes intended—perhaps he'd thought that I could keep him intrigued indefinitely. I was from such a radically different world than his own, after all...and such oddities fascinated him.

And yet, after a mere five weeks, he was bored enough to turn to cocaine.

I sank back into my seat and sighed again. Watson hadn't bothered to answer me, I noticed. At a guess, he was politely pretending that he hadn't heard—because, of course, he couldn't possibly converse on such a subject. It wasn't in him.

I shook myself. This wasn't the time for self-pity—there were more important things to worry about. I could figure out where I stood with Holmes later.

“No mere human can keep Holmes' interest,” Watson said suddenly. He spoke so quietly that I almost missed the words, even though we were sitting side by side.

I turned my head toward him with a questioning look.

“You mustn't take it personally,” the doctor continued, keeping his voice low and looking acutely uncomfortable. “And you mustn't think that he doesn't hold you in regard."

He paused and took a deep breath. "I don't believe that Holmes is trifling with you, Daniels—but only a challenging case can save him from the ennui that drives him to the needle. There was nothing you could have done to prevent this. Nor should you take it as a sign that Holmes has grown weary of you.”

Somehow I managed a nod, surprised but grateful for this unexpected reassurance. Watson must know Holmes better than anyone. I could trust his words.

I would just have to hope that his insights regarding Holmes sprang purely from brotherly affection.

LINK TO PART SIX

A Masterful Performance, Part Four

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction; Sherlock Holmes; Holmes-Watson pre-slash.

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock Holmes

Feedback: Any and all welcome!

Summary: Holmes tracks down the young man who played him for a fool in A Study in Scarlet...

LINK TO PART ONE

~

Part Four: Jonathan Daniels

I walked home from dinner instead of hailing a cab. I had a snug set of rooms in Covent Garden which, fortunately, is not quite the notorious red-light district it was a century ago. But it still attracts actors and opera singers and courtesans, not to mention the poor flower girls. All in all, the sort of people I've come to feel at home with.

I paused at that and spared a raw smile for my home back in Brooklyn. My sisters are as mad about me as ever. I'm still their little brother—hence all the tokens of their affection that Holmes observed in my dressing room. They were all upset by the rift between our parents and myself, but none of them cut me off. It'd be awkward for them if I showed up on any of their doorsteps...but I don't think they'd turn me away.

But my parents—well, if they were going to have just one son, they should have had a son like Dr. John Watson: intelligent, kind and, as I suspected, painfully respectable. He'd have followed my father's wishes. He'd have married a nice girl from our community, become a pillar of the synagogue and everyone's friend and confidant. He would have studied Shakespeare (a pursuit my father found acceptable, if somewhat incomprehensible to a man of his limited English) without falling in love with some actor and running off to the stage.

I started walking again. Watson knows, of course. He's not naïve enough to believe that Holmes and I are merely friends. He doesn't approve, and he's probably having nightmares about Holmes being hauled off to prison, but he'll accept me for Holmes' sake.

I frowned at that. Why had Holmes wanted me to meet him in the first place? I honestly think that he needed Watson's approval—or at least understanding. Well, I shouldn't be surprised. It had become clear, in the past week, that Dr. Watson looms large in my lover's life.

Perhaps Watson was the only true family he had. No, Holmes did have a brother. I knew that because I had pestered him about his background. His parents were deceased, but his older brother was alive and well and living here in London. But while there was no quarrel between the two, they didn't go out of their way to visit each other.

So I was back to where I started: Watson was the closest thing Holmes had to real family. Well, I could understand that, couldn't I? After all, I had a makeshift family of my own in my fellow actors and actresses.

~

“Perfect,” Holmes said, regarding himself in my mirror with a critical eye. “You're quite right—vaseline works wonders when it comes to feigning a fever. I do believe I could fool even Watson, if I didn't allow him to come close enough to feel my forehead.”

I grinned at him as I dabbed his face with a handkerchief. It was a month after that dinner with the good doctor, and things were looking quite promising between Holmes and me. And I noticed that he was becoming more and more at ease in my rooms.

“Vaseline has so many uses...” I teased.

He laughed and pulled me into his arms. “We should commence an in-depth study immediately,” he recommended.

I kissed him soundly, but then broke apart from him. “Alas, we'll have to postpone our experiments. I'm due to perform in an hour.”

He sighed, but managed a nod. “Very well. Why I don't I wait here for you?”

I was surprised by that, but flattered. Holmes is a finicky fellow—he either can't get enough of me, or he has no use for me for days on end. I can stand the time apart, but I like it better when he's insatiable for my company.

“Please do,” I said, “and make yourself at home. Feel free to prowl through my books if you get bored.”

“Oh, I shall keep myself entertained,” Holmes promised me. “Now off with you—I want to practice this fevered look.”

I smiled at that and took my leave of him, hoping that the hours would pass quickly.

~

I picked up a bouquet of roses from one of the flower girls on my way back. Holmes might not appreciate the gesture, but I would make it all the same. I took the steps two at a time when I reached my building and all but bounded into my rooms.

“Holmes?” I called out.

There was no response. I was just wondering if he had gone out when I heard him call back from the bedroom.

“John?” he said.

I stiffened at that. He called me Daniels. And if he were going to call me by my first name, he would have said 'Jonathan' rather than 'John.' Apparently I was not the one on his mind. But somehow I managed to swallow my anger and convince myself, yet again, that Watson was like a brother to him. Then I tromped toward the bedroom—but I froze at threshold.

Holmes was ill. Seriously ill. His face was pale and drenched in sweat, his eyes—I can't begin to describe how frightening it was to see such a vacant expression in them. Those grey eyes should be sharp and penetrating, not hollow and listless.

I rushed over to him. God help the man if this was an act, a way of practicing with the vaseline...

But this was no act. He was drugged. Had he taken an excess of laudanum? He hadn't mentioned any pain or injuries. But then I saw the needle and the bottle on the small table near my bed. Cocaine. I knew plenty of actors who favored that seven percent solution.

I also knew that even in the midst of a cocaine-clouded dream, no one should look like this. Something was wrong. Holmes had taken too much of the stuff, or he'd been taking it too long. I shook myself. I never dreamed that he'd be the sort to turn to these wretched chemicals. What on earth had induced him to plunge a needle into his arm? Would I find him in an opium den next?

I felt his face—it was cold as ice. I swallowed hard and searched for his pulse. I'm no expert, but it seemed weak to me.

“Holmes,” I said, shaking him gently. “Holmes, wake up!”

His eyes tried to focus on me. “Daniels? Where's Watson?”

“I'll fetch him,” I promised. “You need a doctor.”

He grabbed hold of me with surprising strength. “No! I don't wish Watson to see me like this...”

God damn him. Is that why he wanted to stay in my rooms? To indulge his habit without his beloved Watson being any the wiser?

“If you're in the habit of sticking a needle in your arm, I imagine he's seen you worse,” I retorted. But then I felt my face soften—I couldn't stand to see Holmes so distressed. God help me, but I was already half in love with this brilliant idiot.

“I'll get Kitty to look after you,” I continued as he finally released me. He didn't have the strength to maintain that grip.

“The courtesan downstairs?” he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

I nodded. “She's discreet. And she's at liberty—her man's away in the country with his family.” I paused to lean down and kiss him. “Just stay put. I'll be back with Watson soon.”

LINK TO PART FIVE