Yay! I have a guest post on Veinglory's Gay Sherlock Holmes blog. It's a longer movie review than I posted in December.
Also, I have discovered some historical books on Victorian women travel writers, who are exceptional for traveling the world alone, at a time when most ladies could not respectably travel without family or paid companions. They can do so because they are of a wealthy upperclass, and well educated.
This gives me more confidence that I can do something with Helen Stoner, although perhaps her fiancé Percy Armitage will still object. And Helen is mainly limited to traveling to and from America. Diana Struthers on the other hand would perhaps have to pretend to be married to or related to Holmes to travel with him for the three years of the hiatus. Either way, I shall have to read up about this subject.
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Monday, February 8, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
Private Life, part 3
And now part 3, and what happens on the morning after. This is the final part.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Story: movie-verse, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: slash, PG-13
In the morning Watson woke with a hangover. He really had drunk quite a lot of vodka. He groaned and rolled over to turn off the alarm clock. Why on earth would he set his alarm clock so early, especially on a night when he'd been drinking heavily? Six in the bloody morning? Maybe he didn't do it. Maybe it was a prank by Holmes.
Holmes! Watson's eyes sprang open, as he remembered last night. Holmes had lied about their relationship, and Watson had been so angry to find out. It was stupid of him. After all, he had a reputation and three continents of women to vouch for him. But Holmes had eventually soothed him, and began to serenade him on the violin. Why had he never thought of that before? Holmes serenaded him. Watson had never realised that it was Holmes's way of expressing his feelings. Watson had always blindly thought that Holmes was merely playing all those songs he liked as a favour to him, as a way of apologising for anything he did to annoy him as a roommate and friend. Watson had never wondered at the idea that Holmes would play songs that he personally hated, just because Watson requested them.
"I've been such a fool. He loves me. He's always loved me." Watson sat up then, but groaned again at his headache. He remained still for a moment to let himself recover, before going to take an aspirin with water. He also soothed himself with the thought of Holmes's face last night. His tears and his vulnerability. His beauty when he was dishevelled by kisses.
When Watson felt better, he went to wash his face and comb his hair a little. He did not want to look ridiculous when he saw Holmes. Then he put on his dressing-gown and finally left for Holmes's room.
He knocked softly, then entered. "Holmes?"
He was still asleep.
Watson came in and closed the door.
Holmes started a little at the sound and he turned around. "Watson?"
"Good morning." Watson came nearer and untied his dressing-room before taking it off and tossing it across a chair. Then Watson pulled back the covers and climbed in beside him.
"Watson?" Holmes stared dumbly at him, wondering if he were hallucinating. Had Watson been right after all about the terrible effects of cocaine?
Watson stared at Holmes and finally looked worried. "You don't remember last night? Were you--were you drunk too?"
Holmes blinked and shook his head. "No, I did not have any vodka, but..." he trailed off, no longer remembering the terrible taste of the red pepper. He touched Watson's face tentatively to reassure himself that he wasn't dreaming his presence.
Watson suddenly smiled and said, "You mean you only tasted the vodka that I had?" He laughed and pulled Holmes into his arms.
"Oh, Watson!" Holmes clung to him and nearly cried in happiness.
"Hey, it's all right." Watson kissed him again. "Come here."
Holmes kissed him back, delighting in the feel of the doctor's moustache and even his early morning stubble. He had imagined for years what it would feel like, but it was much better than his imagination.
"Good," Watson said, when Holmes calmed down somewhat.
He remained puzzled, though. "Watson, how can this be? You've always liked ladies before."
"I know, but you've also--" Then he stopped and frowned. "Wait, you lied to me about your fiancée, didn't you?"
"No," Holmes said truthfully. "Her name was Violet, and she died, as I told you. It was the first blush of youth, a romance that pales beside mature love. I only lied about the name Eunice, when I spoke unwisely."
Watson looked surprised. "Then you haven't always been queer?"
Holmes replied, "Nor have you."
Watson considered that and shrugged. "I suppose so. Hmm, perhaps we are like Sergei."
"Sergei?"
"One of the ballet dancers who leered at me last night. That director fellow told me not to worry that you had told 'our' secret, for they were not bourgeois. He then pointed out to me all the dancers who were queer. He said Sergei was half and half."
Holmes laughed. "Half and half! Well, I should have known."
"What?"
"That you, as always, are an exceptional man."
Watson blushed. "Am I?"
He nodded. "You are so perfect."
"Am I?"
"Indeed." Holmes kissed him passionately.
Watson happily kissed him back, and began to undress him.
"You are so eager, Watson."
"Well, after you stopped me last night..."
Holmes moaned as Watson unbuttoned his shirt and began to kiss his bared skin. They undressed each other and tried to make love, but found themselves fumbling around clumsily. Each had only experienced sex with women before, and they were unsure how to mesh themselves now.
Watson even stopped to demand to know more about Holmes's sexual experience. So Holmes confessed about the most affectionate woman he ever knew; he had a passionate affair with the lady, who turned out to be stealing cyanide from his lab, so that she could poison her husband to death.
"An affair with a married woman? Really, Holmes!"
"Well, she was trying to correct that error, you have to admit. Luckily I discovered her in time, and she was hanged."
"Good lord." That certainly put Watson out of the mood. "And so now you do not trust women. Like what you said the other day to me, about the twinkle in the eye and the arsenic in the soup."
"Indeed, Watson."
"And you call my stories lurid!"
Holmes shrugged and curled up close to Watson's naked body. At least he could enjoy this warmth and feel his heartbeat.
Watson nuzzled him and sighed. "We must figure this out. Do we dare inquire of the Russian ballet dancers to ask them how one accomplishes sodomy and buggery?"
"Not if they're going to leer at you."
Watson was surprised. "Are you jealous?"
"Of course."
Watson smiled proudly.
"This shall do nothing good for your modesty."
"I'll take that risk. Tell me, may I call you Sherlock now?"
"What? Oh." He grimaced at the thought. "Currently the only person who calls me such is my brother Mycroft, and you know how difficult our relationship is."
"I see. Very well. I'll stick to Holmes, then."
"Thank you, my dear, and I shall call you John."
"Holmes!"
They laughed together and kissed a while, but then heard footsteps on the stair. Glancing at the clock, they now realised how long they had lingered in bed together.
Watson reluctantly got up and dressed again so that he could sneak back to his bedroom before breakfast.
Holmes kissed him before he went, then lay back in bed, smelling the remaining scent of Watson in the sheets and pillows. He could hardly believe his luck, that Watson desired him after all. Perhaps even loved him, and might say it eventually. How wonderful that would be.
He contemplated whether they seriously could contact any of the Russian dancers for advice. But no, they believed that Holmes and Watson's affair had lasted for years, so it would not be credible for them to need beginner's instructions. Besides, those Russians would be returning to St. Petersburg soon.
No, what he and Watson needed was a holiday away from Baker Street. Somewhere that they could practice the art of love freely and loudly.
Hmm, perhaps Venice would be nice at this time of year?
The End
Of course, after this I would have to assume that the rest of the movie didn't happen. "Gabrielle Valladon" would not arrive to ask Holmes to find her husband the naval engineer, Emile Valladon. Or at least Holmes would not fall for her and would actually listen when Mycroft told him to drop the case. Then Mycroft and the Diogenes Club would handle the German spy themselves.
Perhaps then Mycroft would confront Sherlock about his new relationship with Watson, too. I don't know.
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A Love Story Between Two Men, part 3
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Story: movie-verse, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: slash, PG-13
In the morning Watson woke with a hangover. He really had drunk quite a lot of vodka. He groaned and rolled over to turn off the alarm clock. Why on earth would he set his alarm clock so early, especially on a night when he'd been drinking heavily? Six in the bloody morning? Maybe he didn't do it. Maybe it was a prank by Holmes.
Holmes! Watson's eyes sprang open, as he remembered last night. Holmes had lied about their relationship, and Watson had been so angry to find out. It was stupid of him. After all, he had a reputation and three continents of women to vouch for him. But Holmes had eventually soothed him, and began to serenade him on the violin. Why had he never thought of that before? Holmes serenaded him. Watson had never realised that it was Holmes's way of expressing his feelings. Watson had always blindly thought that Holmes was merely playing all those songs he liked as a favour to him, as a way of apologising for anything he did to annoy him as a roommate and friend. Watson had never wondered at the idea that Holmes would play songs that he personally hated, just because Watson requested them.
"I've been such a fool. He loves me. He's always loved me." Watson sat up then, but groaned again at his headache. He remained still for a moment to let himself recover, before going to take an aspirin with water. He also soothed himself with the thought of Holmes's face last night. His tears and his vulnerability. His beauty when he was dishevelled by kisses.
When Watson felt better, he went to wash his face and comb his hair a little. He did not want to look ridiculous when he saw Holmes. Then he put on his dressing-gown and finally left for Holmes's room.
He knocked softly, then entered. "Holmes?"
He was still asleep.
Watson came in and closed the door.
Holmes started a little at the sound and he turned around. "Watson?"
"Good morning." Watson came nearer and untied his dressing-room before taking it off and tossing it across a chair. Then Watson pulled back the covers and climbed in beside him.
"Watson?" Holmes stared dumbly at him, wondering if he were hallucinating. Had Watson been right after all about the terrible effects of cocaine?
Watson stared at Holmes and finally looked worried. "You don't remember last night? Were you--were you drunk too?"
Holmes blinked and shook his head. "No, I did not have any vodka, but..." he trailed off, no longer remembering the terrible taste of the red pepper. He touched Watson's face tentatively to reassure himself that he wasn't dreaming his presence.
Watson suddenly smiled and said, "You mean you only tasted the vodka that I had?" He laughed and pulled Holmes into his arms.
"Oh, Watson!" Holmes clung to him and nearly cried in happiness.
"Hey, it's all right." Watson kissed him again. "Come here."
Holmes kissed him back, delighting in the feel of the doctor's moustache and even his early morning stubble. He had imagined for years what it would feel like, but it was much better than his imagination.
"Good," Watson said, when Holmes calmed down somewhat.
He remained puzzled, though. "Watson, how can this be? You've always liked ladies before."
"I know, but you've also--" Then he stopped and frowned. "Wait, you lied to me about your fiancée, didn't you?"
"No," Holmes said truthfully. "Her name was Violet, and she died, as I told you. It was the first blush of youth, a romance that pales beside mature love. I only lied about the name Eunice, when I spoke unwisely."
Watson looked surprised. "Then you haven't always been queer?"
Holmes replied, "Nor have you."
Watson considered that and shrugged. "I suppose so. Hmm, perhaps we are like Sergei."
"Sergei?"
"One of the ballet dancers who leered at me last night. That director fellow told me not to worry that you had told 'our' secret, for they were not bourgeois. He then pointed out to me all the dancers who were queer. He said Sergei was half and half."
Holmes laughed. "Half and half! Well, I should have known."
"What?"
"That you, as always, are an exceptional man."
Watson blushed. "Am I?"
He nodded. "You are so perfect."
"Am I?"
"Indeed." Holmes kissed him passionately.
Watson happily kissed him back, and began to undress him.
"You are so eager, Watson."
"Well, after you stopped me last night..."
Holmes moaned as Watson unbuttoned his shirt and began to kiss his bared skin. They undressed each other and tried to make love, but found themselves fumbling around clumsily. Each had only experienced sex with women before, and they were unsure how to mesh themselves now.
Watson even stopped to demand to know more about Holmes's sexual experience. So Holmes confessed about the most affectionate woman he ever knew; he had a passionate affair with the lady, who turned out to be stealing cyanide from his lab, so that she could poison her husband to death.
"An affair with a married woman? Really, Holmes!"
"Well, she was trying to correct that error, you have to admit. Luckily I discovered her in time, and she was hanged."
"Good lord." That certainly put Watson out of the mood. "And so now you do not trust women. Like what you said the other day to me, about the twinkle in the eye and the arsenic in the soup."
"Indeed, Watson."
"And you call my stories lurid!"
Holmes shrugged and curled up close to Watson's naked body. At least he could enjoy this warmth and feel his heartbeat.
Watson nuzzled him and sighed. "We must figure this out. Do we dare inquire of the Russian ballet dancers to ask them how one accomplishes sodomy and buggery?"
"Not if they're going to leer at you."
Watson was surprised. "Are you jealous?"
"Of course."
Watson smiled proudly.
"This shall do nothing good for your modesty."
"I'll take that risk. Tell me, may I call you Sherlock now?"
"What? Oh." He grimaced at the thought. "Currently the only person who calls me such is my brother Mycroft, and you know how difficult our relationship is."
"I see. Very well. I'll stick to Holmes, then."
"Thank you, my dear, and I shall call you John."
"Holmes!"
They laughed together and kissed a while, but then heard footsteps on the stair. Glancing at the clock, they now realised how long they had lingered in bed together.
Watson reluctantly got up and dressed again so that he could sneak back to his bedroom before breakfast.
Holmes kissed him before he went, then lay back in bed, smelling the remaining scent of Watson in the sheets and pillows. He could hardly believe his luck, that Watson desired him after all. Perhaps even loved him, and might say it eventually. How wonderful that would be.
He contemplated whether they seriously could contact any of the Russian dancers for advice. But no, they believed that Holmes and Watson's affair had lasted for years, so it would not be credible for them to need beginner's instructions. Besides, those Russians would be returning to St. Petersburg soon.
No, what he and Watson needed was a holiday away from Baker Street. Somewhere that they could practice the art of love freely and loudly.
Hmm, perhaps Venice would be nice at this time of year?
The End
Of course, after this I would have to assume that the rest of the movie didn't happen. "Gabrielle Valladon" would not arrive to ask Holmes to find her husband the naval engineer, Emile Valladon. Or at least Holmes would not fall for her and would actually listen when Mycroft told him to drop the case. Then Mycroft and the Diogenes Club would handle the German spy themselves.
Perhaps then Mycroft would confront Sherlock about his new relationship with Watson, too. I don't know.
Read more
Private Life, part 2
And now part 2, where Watson comes home, and I begin to depart from what happened in the 1970 movie.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Story: movie-verse, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: slash, PG-13
Holmes sat smoking gloomily, until he heard footsteps outside. It was Watson, running rather angrily down Baker Street. Why did he not take a cab home? Then Holmes realised his error. Watson must have heard from Rogozhin about what Holmes had said. For no other reason would Watson abandon all those pretty ballerinas.
So Holmes quickly rearranged his chair and lowered the lights in the room. He then set up his pipe apparatus that he had used to study 144 different types of tobacco ash.
"Holmes!" Watson called out furiously. Then he rushed up the stairs. "Holmes! There you are!" He saw Holmes's pipe smoking from the chair, and he began to call Holmes all sorts of names, like "you wretch!" and "you blackguard!"
Holmes remained silent, just operating the foot pedal of his smoking apparatus.
Watson continued addressing the chair. "Of all the foul, unspeakable fabrications! What do you have to say for yourself? Well don't just sit there! Speak up, man!" He then threw his opera glasses at the chair, knocking down the pipe and apparatus.
Hearing the crash, Watson looked concerned and finally softened his voice. "Holmes? Are you all right, Holmes?" He set aside his cane and approached the chair, kneeling down. Then the doctor discovered the apparatus and realised that he had been tricked.
Holmes moved into a shaft of light and said, "From the sound of your footsteps I gathered that you were not in a particularly amiable mood."
Watson rose, getting angry again. "How! How could you invent such a dastardly lie?! What the deuce were you thinking of?" He even threw down the apparatus, knocking his top hat off his head, but not the rose still above his left ear.
Holmes went to shut the door. "Watson, you have my most abject apologies. But have you ever been cornered by a madwoman? She had no case. She told me through translation that she wanted me to father her child!"
"Her child? But she's--"
"Forty-nine. And yet she, and her director friend, persisted in the delusion that she could conceive still. How could I argue with such madness?"
Watson finally began to understand, but he remained upset. "But Holmes, you shouldn't have said such a thing! Tell her that you are engaged, or--or diseased!"
"I did, Watson. I tried to claim that I had haemophilia, of all things! Still Rogozhin insisted, and then you thankfully interrupted with your question about Russian, and it put a new idea into my head."
"Holmes!"
He shrugged. "It seemed like the only way to get out of it without hurting her feelings."
Watson sputtered. "And what about my feelings? And my reputation! Do you realise the gravity of what you've done? The possible repercussions?"
"So there'll be a little gossip about you in St. Petersburg. It will fade and be forgotten."
Watson shook his head. "These things spread like wildfire. I can just hear those malicious whispers behind my back. I'll never be able to show my face in polite society. Lord knows I'll never get another story published."
"Watson, you're running amok! No one would ever believe it."
"You got those Russians to believe it. I was leered at by eight male dancers!"
Holmes felt a pang of jealousy. "Naturally. You are attractive to both sexes."
"It's not funny!" Watson paced anxiously and went over to stand by the mantle. "Dishonoured, disgraced, ostracised! What am I to do?"
"Well, for one thing, I'd get rid of that flower."
Watson finally noticed the remaining rose and hurled it aside. "Oh, you may think this is funny, but we're both in the same boat."
"Watson, you wouldn't be--"
Watson suddenly gasped in horror. "And if it ever got back to my old regiment!" He pointed a finger at Holmes. "You don't know the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers! They'll strike me off the rolls. They'll cut off my pension!"
"Then they are unworthy to have you on their rolls!" Holmes declared.
Watson looked at him oddly for a moment, and Holmes turned away.
He sat down and tried to comfort his friend, "It wouldn't matter anyway. I would support you, Watson. You know I have had plenty of income from wealthy clients." By God, he sounded like he was offering marriage, or at least an immoral household.
Watson did not see his blush in the dim light. "You would never have another client again, Holmes! Don't you understand how ruinous this is?"
"But it wouldn't happen! Watson, you have an enviable record with the fair sex. They would never believe such slander of you. Your reputation would remain intact."
Watson considered it. "You're right, Holmes." He cheered up and started to laugh. "Yes, I've got three continents of women to testify for me. We could sue anyone who suggested anything of the kind."
"Exactly," Holmes said. "You have nothing to hide, and no one would dare impugn your manhood." Watson was the most perfect, wonderful man he had known.
Watson smiled and sat down in relief. "But Holmes, really, it was such a shock. Why couldn't you have told me this instead of leaving?"
"How could I with all those women hanging on you?"
"I suppose so." Watson laughed. He reached for his cane and poked Holmes with it. "They were such lovely girls too. Couldn't speak a word of English, though."
"But you managed despite this impediment."
"Indeed." He chuckled wickedly to himself and twirled the cane in his hand.
Holmes closed his eyes and ached again. Why could he never stop this longing? After all these years that he'd worked to be rational and unemotional, he was defeated daily by this irresistible doctor. If only the lies he'd told tonight were true.
Watson put down the cane and started humming a tune from Swan Lake. "How does it go, Holmes? Do you remember?"
Holmes could remember the way Watson stared rapt in the ballet. He could remember sitting next to him in the dark box and wondering if he dared move his chair closer, so he could brush against his leg or arm. If he feigned interest in the ballet and asked to borrow Watson's opera glasses, could they lean close together to share them? Could he feel Watson's touch for just a little while?
Watson still hummed. "Holmes? Can you play it for me?"
Holmes swallowed. "I--yes." He got up and went to collect his violin and bow. The instrument was not so magnificent as the Stradivarius he'd handled today, but it was familiar and good enough to please the doctor. He started to play the melody that Watson wanted. He would have to go out and buy the sheet music tomorrow, so he could learn it all for Watson. How ironic, that Tchaikovsky was apparently queer as well. Perhaps this piece was a love song to that man's beloved too. Was it unrequited love? Could no one be happy who loved so unspeakably? He remembered what Watson had called him before. "You wretch!"
Watson meanwhile began to relax with the music. He took off his tuxedo jacket and loosened his collar again. He hummed along with Holmes, then went to pour himself a drink. As he did so, he reached to turn the light up again. He wanted to see Holmes's performance.
Holmes reacted with surprise and turned away.
But Watson had glimpsed his face. There had been tears in his eyes, on his cheeks. "Holmes?"
He wiped the tears quickly and struggled with his voice, "It--it is merely the music. And the story of the ballet--it was a tragedy." At least, he thought so, because he saw the tears in Watson's face at the end. Holmes had watched him so intently that he could not pay attention to the ballet long enough to understand a coherent plot. Something about a magical curse on a young woman. He only snapped out of it when Watson suddenly began clapping loudly as the ballet ended.
"Yes, Holmes!" Watson nodded and looked pleased. "Yes, it was quite heartbreaking." He came closer, astonished to find that Holmes was not unmoved by romance and love after all. "I'm so glad you liked it, Holmes. It was quite beautiful. Aren't you glad you came anyway, despite the madness of Madame Petrova?"
Holmes shrugged and tried to continue playing. He closed his eyes to shut out Watson's stare, but still he was aware of how close Watson sat to him. Soon he found that his fingers were no longer steady, and he began to shake. Before he could withdraw and think of an excuse to make, Watson stood suddenly and grabbed hold of his arms. "Holmes."
"I--it's nothing." He brought down the violin and bow and tried to turn away.
"Holmes." Watson set the things aside and pulled Holmes closer to him. He brushed Holmes's face and then suddenly hugged him tightly.
Holmes gasped and clung to him.
Watson whispered, "Why does it affect you so? Are you remembering something? Something painful? Did you have a tragic love in your past?"
Holmes blinked. So Watson was curious once again about his youth. Holmes had only this year revealed his brother Mycroft to Watson, and now Watson was obsessed with learning more secrets from him.
"Please, Holmes, you can tell me." Watson ran fingers through Holmes's hair and continued to soothe him gently.
Holmes swallowed and decided he might as well tell Watson something, to divert his suspicions. "I--well I was engaged once, to the daughter of my violin teacher, but she died of influenza." Women were so unreliable.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Holmes." He patted Holmes gently. "Did you love her very much?"
Not as much as I love you, he thought.
"What?" Watson suddenly stiffened.
Holmes blinked.
"You love me?"
Holmes panicked, realising that he'd spoken out loud. "No! I didn't mean--there was another woman. Her name was Eunice." Not really, but it was the only thing he could substitute for "you" convincingly.
Watson stepped back and looked into his face, searching his grey eyes.
Holmes could not hide his emotions well enough to fool him.
Watson stared at him with tenderness, and perhaps pity. "Holmes, you--I had no idea."
Holmes turned away and tried to leave Watson's arms, but Watson held on.
"Then what you said to Madame Petrova--it was true?"
"No, it wasn't! It was a lie. We're not lovers."
Watson recalled what Rogozhin had said. "But you--it's true about you. And you want us to be... You love me?" He said it in disbelief and astonishment.
Holmes choked and stared at the floor. "I'm sorry. I--Watson, I did not mean to say."
"I know." He tried to pull Holmes closer.
"I'll move out."
"What?"
"I'll leave so you won't have to see me again."
"No, Holmes!"
"You could not live under this same roof with me again. I'll go."
"Holmes!" They struggled together, and Watson made Holmes face him again, despite his tears. He looked so beautiful suddenly. Holmes had a heart after all. He could love. He did love. Watson was so moved that he kissed him.
Holmes froze.
Watson blinked and looked at him with fascination. "That--that's not bad."
Holmes shook his head. "Watson, you're not--you've never wanted..." Then he realized miserably, "You're just drunk, aren't you?"
"No, I--it's you. You're so..." He tried to kiss Holmes again.
"No, Watson. How much vodka did you have tonight?"
"Taste it." Watson kissed him more intensely this time, opening his mouth. Oddly, he tasted of red pepper. But he was so warm and delicious.
Holmes moaned and closed his eyes. "Watson."
"Oh, Holmes." Watson moved toward the couch and pulled Holmes onto it. He smothered him in kisses, enjoying the way that Holmes whimpered in his arms. Then Watson started to undo Holmes's smoking jacket.
Holmes reluctantly pulled away and said breathlessly, "Watson, no. You're drunk."
He shook his head. "That run home sobered me up."
"That's just what you say now. You'll feel differently tomorrow." He could not take it if Watson called him a dastardly wretch who had taken advantage of him.
"No, I want you. I l--"
"Watson, stop! Please, for me." He really sounded distressed.
So Watson finally withdrew his fingers from Holmes's clothes.
Holmes told him, "Tomorrow. If you love me tomorrow, then we'll continue this. But not tonight. Not yet."
Watson reluctantly agreed. "All right, Holmes."
"Thank you." Holmes extricated himself and got up.
Watson watched as Holmes walked to his bedroom door. "Tomorrow."
Holmes stopped for a moment and turned back to him. He whispered, "Goodnight," then departed again.
Watson sat there for a while, contemplating his flushed face and his disordered moustache. Then finally he rose and turned out the lights. He went to his bedroom and undressed, still thinking of Holmes. After setting his alarm clock, he lay down in bed and prayed that the night would be short. "Holmes loves me," he whispered to himself. "Why?" he wondered.
End of part 2
Part 3
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A Love Story Between Two Men, part 2
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Story: movie-verse, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: slash, PG-13
Holmes sat smoking gloomily, until he heard footsteps outside. It was Watson, running rather angrily down Baker Street. Why did he not take a cab home? Then Holmes realised his error. Watson must have heard from Rogozhin about what Holmes had said. For no other reason would Watson abandon all those pretty ballerinas.
So Holmes quickly rearranged his chair and lowered the lights in the room. He then set up his pipe apparatus that he had used to study 144 different types of tobacco ash.
"Holmes!" Watson called out furiously. Then he rushed up the stairs. "Holmes! There you are!" He saw Holmes's pipe smoking from the chair, and he began to call Holmes all sorts of names, like "you wretch!" and "you blackguard!"
Holmes remained silent, just operating the foot pedal of his smoking apparatus.
Watson continued addressing the chair. "Of all the foul, unspeakable fabrications! What do you have to say for yourself? Well don't just sit there! Speak up, man!" He then threw his opera glasses at the chair, knocking down the pipe and apparatus.
Hearing the crash, Watson looked concerned and finally softened his voice. "Holmes? Are you all right, Holmes?" He set aside his cane and approached the chair, kneeling down. Then the doctor discovered the apparatus and realised that he had been tricked.
Holmes moved into a shaft of light and said, "From the sound of your footsteps I gathered that you were not in a particularly amiable mood."
Watson rose, getting angry again. "How! How could you invent such a dastardly lie?! What the deuce were you thinking of?" He even threw down the apparatus, knocking his top hat off his head, but not the rose still above his left ear.
Holmes went to shut the door. "Watson, you have my most abject apologies. But have you ever been cornered by a madwoman? She had no case. She told me through translation that she wanted me to father her child!"
"Her child? But she's--"
"Forty-nine. And yet she, and her director friend, persisted in the delusion that she could conceive still. How could I argue with such madness?"
Watson finally began to understand, but he remained upset. "But Holmes, you shouldn't have said such a thing! Tell her that you are engaged, or--or diseased!"
"I did, Watson. I tried to claim that I had haemophilia, of all things! Still Rogozhin insisted, and then you thankfully interrupted with your question about Russian, and it put a new idea into my head."
"Holmes!"
He shrugged. "It seemed like the only way to get out of it without hurting her feelings."
Watson sputtered. "And what about my feelings? And my reputation! Do you realise the gravity of what you've done? The possible repercussions?"
"So there'll be a little gossip about you in St. Petersburg. It will fade and be forgotten."
Watson shook his head. "These things spread like wildfire. I can just hear those malicious whispers behind my back. I'll never be able to show my face in polite society. Lord knows I'll never get another story published."
"Watson, you're running amok! No one would ever believe it."
"You got those Russians to believe it. I was leered at by eight male dancers!"
Holmes felt a pang of jealousy. "Naturally. You are attractive to both sexes."
"It's not funny!" Watson paced anxiously and went over to stand by the mantle. "Dishonoured, disgraced, ostracised! What am I to do?"
"Well, for one thing, I'd get rid of that flower."
Watson finally noticed the remaining rose and hurled it aside. "Oh, you may think this is funny, but we're both in the same boat."
"Watson, you wouldn't be--"
Watson suddenly gasped in horror. "And if it ever got back to my old regiment!" He pointed a finger at Holmes. "You don't know the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers! They'll strike me off the rolls. They'll cut off my pension!"
"Then they are unworthy to have you on their rolls!" Holmes declared.
Watson looked at him oddly for a moment, and Holmes turned away.
He sat down and tried to comfort his friend, "It wouldn't matter anyway. I would support you, Watson. You know I have had plenty of income from wealthy clients." By God, he sounded like he was offering marriage, or at least an immoral household.
Watson did not see his blush in the dim light. "You would never have another client again, Holmes! Don't you understand how ruinous this is?"
"But it wouldn't happen! Watson, you have an enviable record with the fair sex. They would never believe such slander of you. Your reputation would remain intact."
Watson considered it. "You're right, Holmes." He cheered up and started to laugh. "Yes, I've got three continents of women to testify for me. We could sue anyone who suggested anything of the kind."
"Exactly," Holmes said. "You have nothing to hide, and no one would dare impugn your manhood." Watson was the most perfect, wonderful man he had known.
Watson smiled and sat down in relief. "But Holmes, really, it was such a shock. Why couldn't you have told me this instead of leaving?"
"How could I with all those women hanging on you?"
"I suppose so." Watson laughed. He reached for his cane and poked Holmes with it. "They were such lovely girls too. Couldn't speak a word of English, though."
"But you managed despite this impediment."
"Indeed." He chuckled wickedly to himself and twirled the cane in his hand.
Holmes closed his eyes and ached again. Why could he never stop this longing? After all these years that he'd worked to be rational and unemotional, he was defeated daily by this irresistible doctor. If only the lies he'd told tonight were true.
Watson put down the cane and started humming a tune from Swan Lake. "How does it go, Holmes? Do you remember?"
Holmes could remember the way Watson stared rapt in the ballet. He could remember sitting next to him in the dark box and wondering if he dared move his chair closer, so he could brush against his leg or arm. If he feigned interest in the ballet and asked to borrow Watson's opera glasses, could they lean close together to share them? Could he feel Watson's touch for just a little while?
Watson still hummed. "Holmes? Can you play it for me?"
Holmes swallowed. "I--yes." He got up and went to collect his violin and bow. The instrument was not so magnificent as the Stradivarius he'd handled today, but it was familiar and good enough to please the doctor. He started to play the melody that Watson wanted. He would have to go out and buy the sheet music tomorrow, so he could learn it all for Watson. How ironic, that Tchaikovsky was apparently queer as well. Perhaps this piece was a love song to that man's beloved too. Was it unrequited love? Could no one be happy who loved so unspeakably? He remembered what Watson had called him before. "You wretch!"
Watson meanwhile began to relax with the music. He took off his tuxedo jacket and loosened his collar again. He hummed along with Holmes, then went to pour himself a drink. As he did so, he reached to turn the light up again. He wanted to see Holmes's performance.
Holmes reacted with surprise and turned away.
But Watson had glimpsed his face. There had been tears in his eyes, on his cheeks. "Holmes?"
He wiped the tears quickly and struggled with his voice, "It--it is merely the music. And the story of the ballet--it was a tragedy." At least, he thought so, because he saw the tears in Watson's face at the end. Holmes had watched him so intently that he could not pay attention to the ballet long enough to understand a coherent plot. Something about a magical curse on a young woman. He only snapped out of it when Watson suddenly began clapping loudly as the ballet ended.
"Yes, Holmes!" Watson nodded and looked pleased. "Yes, it was quite heartbreaking." He came closer, astonished to find that Holmes was not unmoved by romance and love after all. "I'm so glad you liked it, Holmes. It was quite beautiful. Aren't you glad you came anyway, despite the madness of Madame Petrova?"
Holmes shrugged and tried to continue playing. He closed his eyes to shut out Watson's stare, but still he was aware of how close Watson sat to him. Soon he found that his fingers were no longer steady, and he began to shake. Before he could withdraw and think of an excuse to make, Watson stood suddenly and grabbed hold of his arms. "Holmes."
"I--it's nothing." He brought down the violin and bow and tried to turn away.
"Holmes." Watson set the things aside and pulled Holmes closer to him. He brushed Holmes's face and then suddenly hugged him tightly.
Holmes gasped and clung to him.
Watson whispered, "Why does it affect you so? Are you remembering something? Something painful? Did you have a tragic love in your past?"
Holmes blinked. So Watson was curious once again about his youth. Holmes had only this year revealed his brother Mycroft to Watson, and now Watson was obsessed with learning more secrets from him.
"Please, Holmes, you can tell me." Watson ran fingers through Holmes's hair and continued to soothe him gently.
Holmes swallowed and decided he might as well tell Watson something, to divert his suspicions. "I--well I was engaged once, to the daughter of my violin teacher, but she died of influenza." Women were so unreliable.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Holmes." He patted Holmes gently. "Did you love her very much?"
Not as much as I love you, he thought.
"What?" Watson suddenly stiffened.
Holmes blinked.
"You love me?"
Holmes panicked, realising that he'd spoken out loud. "No! I didn't mean--there was another woman. Her name was Eunice." Not really, but it was the only thing he could substitute for "you" convincingly.
Watson stepped back and looked into his face, searching his grey eyes.
Holmes could not hide his emotions well enough to fool him.
Watson stared at him with tenderness, and perhaps pity. "Holmes, you--I had no idea."
Holmes turned away and tried to leave Watson's arms, but Watson held on.
"Then what you said to Madame Petrova--it was true?"
"No, it wasn't! It was a lie. We're not lovers."
Watson recalled what Rogozhin had said. "But you--it's true about you. And you want us to be... You love me?" He said it in disbelief and astonishment.
Holmes choked and stared at the floor. "I'm sorry. I--Watson, I did not mean to say."
"I know." He tried to pull Holmes closer.
"I'll move out."
"What?"
"I'll leave so you won't have to see me again."
"No, Holmes!"
"You could not live under this same roof with me again. I'll go."
"Holmes!" They struggled together, and Watson made Holmes face him again, despite his tears. He looked so beautiful suddenly. Holmes had a heart after all. He could love. He did love. Watson was so moved that he kissed him.
Holmes froze.
Watson blinked and looked at him with fascination. "That--that's not bad."
Holmes shook his head. "Watson, you're not--you've never wanted..." Then he realized miserably, "You're just drunk, aren't you?"
"No, I--it's you. You're so..." He tried to kiss Holmes again.
"No, Watson. How much vodka did you have tonight?"
"Taste it." Watson kissed him more intensely this time, opening his mouth. Oddly, he tasted of red pepper. But he was so warm and delicious.
Holmes moaned and closed his eyes. "Watson."
"Oh, Holmes." Watson moved toward the couch and pulled Holmes onto it. He smothered him in kisses, enjoying the way that Holmes whimpered in his arms. Then Watson started to undo Holmes's smoking jacket.
Holmes reluctantly pulled away and said breathlessly, "Watson, no. You're drunk."
He shook his head. "That run home sobered me up."
"That's just what you say now. You'll feel differently tomorrow." He could not take it if Watson called him a dastardly wretch who had taken advantage of him.
"No, I want you. I l--"
"Watson, stop! Please, for me." He really sounded distressed.
So Watson finally withdrew his fingers from Holmes's clothes.
Holmes told him, "Tomorrow. If you love me tomorrow, then we'll continue this. But not tonight. Not yet."
Watson reluctantly agreed. "All right, Holmes."
"Thank you." Holmes extricated himself and got up.
Watson watched as Holmes walked to his bedroom door. "Tomorrow."
Holmes stopped for a moment and turned back to him. He whispered, "Goodnight," then departed again.
Watson sat there for a while, contemplating his flushed face and his disordered moustache. Then finally he rose and turned out the lights. He went to his bedroom and undressed, still thinking of Holmes. After setting his alarm clock, he lay down in bed and prayed that the night would be short. "Holmes loves me," he whispered to himself. "Why?" he wondered.
End of part 2
Part 3
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Private Life, part 1
Since I recently rewatched Billy Wilder's The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes I've wondered what would have happened if the Russian Ballerina scenes had ended differently. You see, to get out of sex with the Russian ballerina Madame Petrova, Holmes lies and claims that he and Watson are lovers. Later Watson hears this story from the director of the ballet, and he confronts Holmes angrily. This plot happens within the first 35 minutes of the film, and is the basis for Watson wondering if Holmes has ever had any female lovers or not. The rest of the movie is hetero.
Well, this story is based on that movie, but with an alternate outcome, where the movie actually is "a love story between two men" as it was promoted. The scene of Holmes bathing while Watson breakfasts is in the movie, and also, Mycroft and Sherlock do not have a friendly relationship.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Story: movie-verse, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: slash, PG-13
Normally, Holmes would have insisted that Watson come with him to meet the client. He did not want that snobbish Nikolai Rogozhin to exclude Watson, especially since Watson seemed to be a fan of this Madame Petrova. However, Watson looked so eager to spend time with the giggling young ballerinas, that Holmes could not tell him no. Indeed, Holmes had only agreed to attend the boring ballet because Watson had insisted on it.
Holmes had been bathing this morning when Watson walked into his bedroom, and even leaned over to tell him that the ballet was Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, and he could not bear to miss it. So Holmes agreed to go, but was glad that he was bathing in soapy water, and could hide his reaction with the bubbles. He asked Watson to go get their tuxedos pressed, so they could attend the ballet tonight.
"Gladly!" Watson grinned and nearly went to hug Holmes, before remembering himself. He coughed and said, "Thank you, Holmes." Then he stood and hurried to his own bedroom to change out of his dressing gown.
Sitting there, in his cramped bathtub, with the door still open, Holmes exhaled slowly and considered that it was his own fault for leaving his bedroom door open while he bathed. He longed for Watson to watch him, let alone come nearer, and so he shouldn't be surprised when Watson did so. If only Watson had embraced him after all, or even kissed him! Perhaps, if he indulged Watson's sentimentality with the ballet tonight, Holmes might be able to romance him when they got home. Perhaps, if he serenaded Watson on the violin again, played some music from the ballet, and told him how handsome he looked in his tuxedo, Holmes could at last tell Watson how he felt.
But of course his hopes were dashed the moment that Watson gazed at those giggling ballerinas. Watson remained, as always, a ladies' man.
So here Holmes was, being escorted by Rogozhin to Madame Petrova's dressing-room. The grand ballerina greeted the director familiarly as Nikolai, and she apparently spoke only Russian, so Nikolai translated for her.
Holmes graciously kissed the lady's hand and politely responded to her small talk about Watson's stories. He kept wondering about her case, though, and for a while Rogozhin led him to believe that Madame Petrova wanted him to authenticate a Stradivarius violin that she had. However, the director indicated that the "fiddle" would actually be his payment for services to be rendered.
Holmes was astounded, and took hold of the violin only when the man insisted on it.
Finally Madame Petrova emerged from behind her changing screen. She wore a dark red dress with a fur-trimmed jacket over it. Sitting down on the chaise lounge, she instructed Nikolai to go on.
"All right, I will pour vodka and explain." Oddly, the man poured out of a decanter of reddish liquid rather than clear vodka, but Holmes ignored it as he was eager to hear about the case at last. These Russians could be very roundabout.
Nikolai explained that Madame Petrova was retiring from ballet to "spend life bringing up her child."
"How admirable."
"Problem is, how to find father."
"Oh, is he missing?" Finally, we were getting to the point.
"Correct."
The man now handed Holmes a glass, but he did not drink from it yet. Holmes asked, "And that is why you have called me in?"
"Also correct. We must have father, because without father, how could there be child?"
Holmes finally began to understand, and he looked wary. "I see. The whole thing is still in the planning stage."
"Correct again. Madame would like child to be brilliant and beautiful. Since she is beautiful, she needs man with brilliant."
Thereupon, Madame Petrova and Rogozhin toasted something celebratory in Russian. Holmes was quite stunned, but he weakly joined in the toast because he needed a stiff drink just now. However, when he tasted the vodka, he choked. "What's in this?"
Rogozhin said the vodka had red pepper in it. No wonder the colour was wrong.
Holmes could not believe that they both regularly drank this abominable concoction.
Just then Madame Petrova asked a question, and Rogozhin again translated, "Madame would like to know when you can be ready."
"Ready?"
"To leave for Venice. All the arrangements have been made. You will spend one week there with Madame--"
Holmes interrupted, "This is all very flattering, but surely there are other men? Better men."
"To tell truth, you were not first choice. We considered Russian writer Tolstoy."
"Oh that's more like it. The man's a genius."
Rogozhin said that Tolstoy was too old, though, and said they had also considered the philosopher Nietzsche, before dismissing him as too German. "Then, we considered Tchaikovsky."
"Oh you couldn't go wrong with Tchaikovsky."
"We could, and we did. It was catastrophe!"
"Why?" Surely two Russians enamoured of ballet music should be a perfect match?
"You don't know?" The director chuckled and said, "Because Tchaikovsky--how shall I put it? Women, not his glass of tea."
"Oh, pity that."
Madame Petrova raised her glass and spoke with a smile.
Rogozhin translated, "Madame is very happy with her final choice."
Oh God, he had to get out of this. Holmes backed away from them both and put down his glass on a table. "Ah, Madame must not be too hasty. She must remember that I am an Englishman."
"So?" Rogozhin asked.
"Well, you know what they say about us. If there's one thing more deplorable than our cooking, it's our lovemaking. We are not the most romantic of people." Except Watson, apparently.
"Perfect!" the director said. "We don't want sentimental idiots falling in love, committing suicide..."
Holmes remembered that Watson had told him that twelve men had died for Madame Petrova.
"One week in Venice with Madame, she goes back to St. Petersburg with baby, you go back to London with fiddle."
"An equitable arrangement." Holmes put back the violin in its case, and he tried a new tack, claiming that he had haemophilia in his family medical history. He didn't realise at the time that this would be quite illogical, since he had never bled profusely in all his fights during cases--stories that Madame Petrova must have read. Holmes was simply that desperate for some escape.
She interrupted Holmes angrily, and perhaps suspiciously.
"Madame says you talk too much. You find her attractive or no?"
"Well, I, um--" Holmes didn't want to insult her and cause a diplomatic incident. His brother Mycroft disapproved of him enough already.
Suddenly, Watson ran to the room and burst in. He had a red rose in his hair, above his left ear. "Oh, excuse me." He asked Rogozhin to translate a word for him.
The man was irritated, but he said, "It means, 'you little devil'."
"It does? I am?" Watson grinned and said, "Thank you." He then left and closed the door. Holmes still stared after him, thinking of his beautiful face.
Rogozhin spoke as if offended, "I repeat question. You find Madame attractive or no?"
Holmes finally turned to them, and said calmly now, "Oh, I-I find her most attractive... for a woman, that is."
"Then no problem!"
"Maybe a slight one. You see, I am not a free man."
"Not free? But you are bachelor."
Holmes hinted as broadly as he could, "A bachelor living with another bachelor for the last five years. Five very happy years."
The man stepped closer, looking confused, "What is it you are trying to tell us?"
"Well I hoped I could avoid this subject, but some of us, through a cruel caprice of Mother Nature--"
"Get to point."
"The point is that Tchaikovsky is not an isolated case."
"You mean you and Dr. Watson--?"
Holmes nodded, and only wished it could be true.
The director stammered in disbelief, "He is your glass of tea?"
Holmes nodded again. "If you want to be picturesque about it."
Stunned, Rogozhin turned back to Madame Petrova, who then asked why they had mentioned Tchaikovsky's name. The man pointed to Holmes and called him a "pederast."
She stood up angrily and glanced at Holmes, before yelling at Nikolai for being an idiot. That much Holmes could clearly understand.
Smiling in relief, Holmes gathered up his hat, gloves, and cane. "Believe me, Madame, the loss is all mine." He kissed her hand again, then went to the door. "But I would rather disappoint you now, than disappoint you in a gondola in Venice." He put on his hat and opened the door, posing playfully. He imitated Rogozhin's accent, saying, "It would have been 'catastrophe'!"
Finally Holmes departed and closed the door. He soon heard a glass smashing and Madame Petrova screaming unhappily.
Holmes hurried to the backstage party to collect Watson and leave the theatre.
Watson was now dancing in a line with eight ballerinas. His tie and collar were now undone, along with his black waistcoat.
Holmes tried to speak to him, but the doctor would not stop dancing. "Watson? Watson, are you coming?"
"What is it, old boy?"
"We're going home."
"Home?" Watson did not even inquire about the supposed case. He outright refused to leave. "Not a chance! Not the slightest, not the remotest chance. Toodle-loo!"
Having no choice, Holmes walked away, but he turned back a final time to stare after Watson again. Then he left without a word.
Outside, Holmes shook his head and sighed. What an idiot he was to imagine that he could have had a chance with Watson tonight. Watson would always remain a ladies' man.
Holmes returned to Baker Street and exchanged his tuxedo jacket for his green smoking jacket. He sat in his chair and waited for Watson to come home.
Perhaps Watson would manage to bed one or more of those ballerinas tonight, thereby proving that he was neither queer nor involved with Holmes. Well, if Madame Petrova or Rogozhin came to confront him about his lie, he did not care. He would then finally risk the ultimate insult, that Madame Petrova at 49 was too old to conceive a baby, and should look instead into adopting a child.
End of part 1.
Part 2
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Well, this story is based on that movie, but with an alternate outcome, where the movie actually is "a love story between two men" as it was promoted. The scene of Holmes bathing while Watson breakfasts is in the movie, and also, Mycroft and Sherlock do not have a friendly relationship.
A Love Story Between Two Men, part 1
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Story: movie-verse, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: slash, PG-13
Normally, Holmes would have insisted that Watson come with him to meet the client. He did not want that snobbish Nikolai Rogozhin to exclude Watson, especially since Watson seemed to be a fan of this Madame Petrova. However, Watson looked so eager to spend time with the giggling young ballerinas, that Holmes could not tell him no. Indeed, Holmes had only agreed to attend the boring ballet because Watson had insisted on it.
Holmes had been bathing this morning when Watson walked into his bedroom, and even leaned over to tell him that the ballet was Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, and he could not bear to miss it. So Holmes agreed to go, but was glad that he was bathing in soapy water, and could hide his reaction with the bubbles. He asked Watson to go get their tuxedos pressed, so they could attend the ballet tonight.
"Gladly!" Watson grinned and nearly went to hug Holmes, before remembering himself. He coughed and said, "Thank you, Holmes." Then he stood and hurried to his own bedroom to change out of his dressing gown.
Sitting there, in his cramped bathtub, with the door still open, Holmes exhaled slowly and considered that it was his own fault for leaving his bedroom door open while he bathed. He longed for Watson to watch him, let alone come nearer, and so he shouldn't be surprised when Watson did so. If only Watson had embraced him after all, or even kissed him! Perhaps, if he indulged Watson's sentimentality with the ballet tonight, Holmes might be able to romance him when they got home. Perhaps, if he serenaded Watson on the violin again, played some music from the ballet, and told him how handsome he looked in his tuxedo, Holmes could at last tell Watson how he felt.
But of course his hopes were dashed the moment that Watson gazed at those giggling ballerinas. Watson remained, as always, a ladies' man.
So here Holmes was, being escorted by Rogozhin to Madame Petrova's dressing-room. The grand ballerina greeted the director familiarly as Nikolai, and she apparently spoke only Russian, so Nikolai translated for her.
Holmes graciously kissed the lady's hand and politely responded to her small talk about Watson's stories. He kept wondering about her case, though, and for a while Rogozhin led him to believe that Madame Petrova wanted him to authenticate a Stradivarius violin that she had. However, the director indicated that the "fiddle" would actually be his payment for services to be rendered.
Holmes was astounded, and took hold of the violin only when the man insisted on it.
Finally Madame Petrova emerged from behind her changing screen. She wore a dark red dress with a fur-trimmed jacket over it. Sitting down on the chaise lounge, she instructed Nikolai to go on.
"All right, I will pour vodka and explain." Oddly, the man poured out of a decanter of reddish liquid rather than clear vodka, but Holmes ignored it as he was eager to hear about the case at last. These Russians could be very roundabout.
Nikolai explained that Madame Petrova was retiring from ballet to "spend life bringing up her child."
"How admirable."
"Problem is, how to find father."
"Oh, is he missing?" Finally, we were getting to the point.
"Correct."
The man now handed Holmes a glass, but he did not drink from it yet. Holmes asked, "And that is why you have called me in?"
"Also correct. We must have father, because without father, how could there be child?"
Holmes finally began to understand, and he looked wary. "I see. The whole thing is still in the planning stage."
"Correct again. Madame would like child to be brilliant and beautiful. Since she is beautiful, she needs man with brilliant."
Thereupon, Madame Petrova and Rogozhin toasted something celebratory in Russian. Holmes was quite stunned, but he weakly joined in the toast because he needed a stiff drink just now. However, when he tasted the vodka, he choked. "What's in this?"
Rogozhin said the vodka had red pepper in it. No wonder the colour was wrong.
Holmes could not believe that they both regularly drank this abominable concoction.
Just then Madame Petrova asked a question, and Rogozhin again translated, "Madame would like to know when you can be ready."
"Ready?"
"To leave for Venice. All the arrangements have been made. You will spend one week there with Madame--"
Holmes interrupted, "This is all very flattering, but surely there are other men? Better men."
"To tell truth, you were not first choice. We considered Russian writer Tolstoy."
"Oh that's more like it. The man's a genius."
Rogozhin said that Tolstoy was too old, though, and said they had also considered the philosopher Nietzsche, before dismissing him as too German. "Then, we considered Tchaikovsky."
"Oh you couldn't go wrong with Tchaikovsky."
"We could, and we did. It was catastrophe!"
"Why?" Surely two Russians enamoured of ballet music should be a perfect match?
"You don't know?" The director chuckled and said, "Because Tchaikovsky--how shall I put it? Women, not his glass of tea."
"Oh, pity that."
Madame Petrova raised her glass and spoke with a smile.
Rogozhin translated, "Madame is very happy with her final choice."
Oh God, he had to get out of this. Holmes backed away from them both and put down his glass on a table. "Ah, Madame must not be too hasty. She must remember that I am an Englishman."
"So?" Rogozhin asked.
"Well, you know what they say about us. If there's one thing more deplorable than our cooking, it's our lovemaking. We are not the most romantic of people." Except Watson, apparently.
"Perfect!" the director said. "We don't want sentimental idiots falling in love, committing suicide..."
Holmes remembered that Watson had told him that twelve men had died for Madame Petrova.
"One week in Venice with Madame, she goes back to St. Petersburg with baby, you go back to London with fiddle."
"An equitable arrangement." Holmes put back the violin in its case, and he tried a new tack, claiming that he had haemophilia in his family medical history. He didn't realise at the time that this would be quite illogical, since he had never bled profusely in all his fights during cases--stories that Madame Petrova must have read. Holmes was simply that desperate for some escape.
She interrupted Holmes angrily, and perhaps suspiciously.
"Madame says you talk too much. You find her attractive or no?"
"Well, I, um--" Holmes didn't want to insult her and cause a diplomatic incident. His brother Mycroft disapproved of him enough already.
Suddenly, Watson ran to the room and burst in. He had a red rose in his hair, above his left ear. "Oh, excuse me." He asked Rogozhin to translate a word for him.
The man was irritated, but he said, "It means, 'you little devil'."
"It does? I am?" Watson grinned and said, "Thank you." He then left and closed the door. Holmes still stared after him, thinking of his beautiful face.
Rogozhin spoke as if offended, "I repeat question. You find Madame attractive or no?"
Holmes finally turned to them, and said calmly now, "Oh, I-I find her most attractive... for a woman, that is."
"Then no problem!"
"Maybe a slight one. You see, I am not a free man."
"Not free? But you are bachelor."
Holmes hinted as broadly as he could, "A bachelor living with another bachelor for the last five years. Five very happy years."
The man stepped closer, looking confused, "What is it you are trying to tell us?"
"Well I hoped I could avoid this subject, but some of us, through a cruel caprice of Mother Nature--"
"Get to point."
"The point is that Tchaikovsky is not an isolated case."
"You mean you and Dr. Watson--?"
Holmes nodded, and only wished it could be true.
The director stammered in disbelief, "He is your glass of tea?"
Holmes nodded again. "If you want to be picturesque about it."
Stunned, Rogozhin turned back to Madame Petrova, who then asked why they had mentioned Tchaikovsky's name. The man pointed to Holmes and called him a "pederast."
She stood up angrily and glanced at Holmes, before yelling at Nikolai for being an idiot. That much Holmes could clearly understand.
Smiling in relief, Holmes gathered up his hat, gloves, and cane. "Believe me, Madame, the loss is all mine." He kissed her hand again, then went to the door. "But I would rather disappoint you now, than disappoint you in a gondola in Venice." He put on his hat and opened the door, posing playfully. He imitated Rogozhin's accent, saying, "It would have been 'catastrophe'!"
Finally Holmes departed and closed the door. He soon heard a glass smashing and Madame Petrova screaming unhappily.
Holmes hurried to the backstage party to collect Watson and leave the theatre.
Watson was now dancing in a line with eight ballerinas. His tie and collar were now undone, along with his black waistcoat.
Holmes tried to speak to him, but the doctor would not stop dancing. "Watson? Watson, are you coming?"
"What is it, old boy?"
"We're going home."
"Home?" Watson did not even inquire about the supposed case. He outright refused to leave. "Not a chance! Not the slightest, not the remotest chance. Toodle-loo!"
Having no choice, Holmes walked away, but he turned back a final time to stare after Watson again. Then he left without a word.
Outside, Holmes shook his head and sighed. What an idiot he was to imagine that he could have had a chance with Watson tonight. Watson would always remain a ladies' man.
Holmes returned to Baker Street and exchanged his tuxedo jacket for his green smoking jacket. He sat in his chair and waited for Watson to come home.
Perhaps Watson would manage to bed one or more of those ballerinas tonight, thereby proving that he was neither queer nor involved with Holmes. Well, if Madame Petrova or Rogozhin came to confront him about his lie, he did not care. He would then finally risk the ultimate insult, that Madame Petrova at 49 was too old to conceive a baby, and should look instead into adopting a child.
End of part 1.
Part 2
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Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Prelude revised
Today I fixed some typos and other minor stuff on the Prelude ebook, and I republished it on Feedbooks. You probably won't notice any difference. So far the ebook seems to be doing well, with 192 downloads (one of which was me) in about a month's time.
It's at the same link as before: Prelude to a Partnership
Today's also the big day as Apple announces its tablet computer. Apparently it's called the iPad. I hate the name already. It's not a dedicated e-reading device, but we don't need anymore of those after the glut of products at CES. I still haven't purchased any device yet, needing to save my cash for school. I still favor either the Nook or a plain jane non-wireless device, so long as it covers enough formats like ePub and doesn't have too restrictive a DRM scheme. In short, I still want an e-ink screen, even if the color ones won't come out for about another year. So I'll still keep looking and saving up for a while.
I wish Apple the best of luck, though. Since the tablet has iTunes on it, I imagine that the same ebook reading apps from the iPhone will be available. It's all good competition.
Read more
It's at the same link as before: Prelude to a Partnership
Today's also the big day as Apple announces its tablet computer. Apparently it's called the iPad. I hate the name already. It's not a dedicated e-reading device, but we don't need anymore of those after the glut of products at CES. I still haven't purchased any device yet, needing to save my cash for school. I still favor either the Nook or a plain jane non-wireless device, so long as it covers enough formats like ePub and doesn't have too restrictive a DRM scheme. In short, I still want an e-ink screen, even if the color ones won't come out for about another year. So I'll still keep looking and saving up for a while.
I wish Apple the best of luck, though. Since the tablet has iTunes on it, I imagine that the same ebook reading apps from the iPhone will be available. It's all good competition.
Read more
Monday, January 18, 2010
Chapter 8 of DIM
I haven't posted many details about Chapter 8 yet, except as described in my Helen notes, so I'll post a sketch here. This is where we first meet Irene Adler in the book, and Holmes hardly notices her, because he's focused on Helen at the time.
I previously posted a version of this on my Geocities website, but I've added onto it with stuff about Irene Adler and later Percy Armitage. Generally trying to fill in more details from the outline.
I should revise it a little more to include Helen Stoner having a maid or something. Even though she learned to be quite independent in Stoke Moran, it still would not seem very respectable for her to travel to America and rent a house all by herself, let alone have a male guest. Perhaps instead Holmes intended to stay with Hargreave or the Pinkertons, but something or other came up and he took the spare room.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Story: Chapter 8 of DIM
Pairing: Holmes/Helen Stoner
Warnings: G, hetero
How specifically does Irene Adler know the Pinkertons or the police? Did Detective Hargreave arrest her once while she was walking around New York in male costume, and she had to explain herself as practising her role for the opera? Then she just decided to keep dropping by for fun? Or she somehow gets into a regular poker game or something with the policeman and the Pinkertons. This would have to be sometime after Holmes's "missing year in America" in 1874; he would be back in London by the time that Irene Adler joins their group.
Anyway, Irene meets them periodically when not in Europe singing, and Helen Stoner arrives in about 1883-4, after her SPEC case. Then Irene meets the Crown Prince of Bohemia in Warsaw, and they have a brief romance, which Irene soon regrets.
What had made her lose her good sense then, with that Crown Prince? Wilhelm had seemed cynical and utterly amused by the social game that he saw through as well. He treated Irene as worldly wise, but refrained from certain assumptions and from insulting her intelligence. He had been intriguing and original in his manner and his courtship of her, coming to observe her at certain cast rehearsals. He had called her a woman of steel, applauding her fencing skills on the stage. He had arranged a most silly, but lovely photograph of themselves standing together; she was in male costume at the time, but he affectionately kept his arm around her waist all the same. She had thought that she met her true kin in this man, and indulged in the indiscretion of falling in love with him, of all things.
But she hadn't counted on his being cowardly and treacherous. When the matter of the succession to his father's throne came into some dispute, he deferred quite immediately to his advisers who warned of scandal and gossip. Suddenly he became the stern soul of discretion and propriety, packing her and her bags off to parts elsewhere, without a kind goodbye or note of apology. He portrayed himself as entrapped, even planting the seeds of rumour about some supposed attempt of hers at blackmail, to make sure that she would be shunned out of the national opera house and indeed, out of Bohemia. It was a selfishly brutal move that wounded her heart more than anything else he might have done. He had changed, his prior sweetness now overwhelmed by expediency and his arrogant belief that the world revolved around him.
So Irene had fled home to America, and had come upon Helen Stoner's doorstep unexpectedly, suddenly needing support and kindness and womanly friendship as she had truly never needed them before. She felt somewhat ridiculous pounding on that door, when she had known Helen as only an acquaintance previously, part of her social circle in New York.
Helen Stoner was an Englishwoman who had been suffocatingly sheltered all her life, and now that she had independent means, wished to taste some wide and diverse life experiences, even to the dismay of her fiancé back in England. She was surprisingly unsnobby about social class as well, welcoming all sorts into her rented rooms in New York. She came to the circle as a friend to policeman Wilson Hargreave and even some Pinkerton detectives, having received a rather exclusive introduction from a former agent.
Irene had spoken with her politely, but hardly knew her. Certainly not enough to come pounding on her door tonight in this frantic, illogical state. But Helen Stoner it was. Irene tried to stay focused and proud once she realised that she came unexpectedly upon Helen and her visitor. (This proper Englishwoman with a man staying in her house? An odd idea.) But Irene had uncontrollably broken down into tears and apologies, even as she insisted that she would not intrude. Helen would take none of her protests, bringing her inside.
"Holmes, this is Irene," she murmured. Then she asked with a silent look, "Do you mind?" and just as silently he nodded to her request and slipped away, going up the stairs as if fully comfortable and familiar with the house.
Irene and Helen then had a nice long talk, and after her thorough cry, Irene felt better enough to insist again that she would go. Helen protested the lateness of the hour and urged her to stay the night, only yielding finally to Irene's insistence that the sitting-room sofa would do for her. Irene apologised again and asked if she had not been rude to Helen's guest. "Mr--?"
"Holmes," she answered. "The detective I told you of--Sherlock Holmes."
"London Pinkerton," Irene nodded, recalling how Helen had earlier described the man. "Detecting another case?" she ventured.
"No," she said, rather sharply. After an awkward pause, she elaborated, "Visiting, that's all. We have mutual friends in New York and London."
"Oh." Irene watched Helen rise and go fetch some linens and blankets for her. "Helen?"
She did not turn around. "Yes?"
"Am I--Did I interrupt... something?"
Helen stared long and silently into the linen closet. "No." She left it at that.
They made the sofa as a bed and then said good-night. Helen turned out the lights and went up the stairs.
Much later, awake after a fitful sleep, Irene heard the sound of whispers. She crept from the sitting-room and peered out to find the door across the hall ajar. The hearth fire lit and glowing upon them, Helen and her guest sat upon the floor in their night-clothes and dressing gowns, murmuring back and forth.
Irene discerned only that he appeared to be showing her some card game, and meanwhile telling stories of how some Pinkertons had taught it to him long ago. She laughed and happily clapped at each successful turn she played. Even when he won this "admittedly irregular game", she remained amused and dropped her cards with a shrug. She yawned and blinked.
He leaned near and patted her hand softly, murmuring that he kept her too late. She smiled and leaned against his shoulder, returning his caress.
After a pause, he reached up and touched her face very faintly, as though only to brush aside her stray, disordered hair. But he lingered, and they were both silent, almost... expectant, for some moments. His eventual letting go and looking away seemed to explain why they had risked coming downstairs, rather than meet in either's bedroom. There seemed so much more to risk upstairs, than here below.
He only stared into the fire, while Helen stared at him.
Helen decides the next day to tell Holmes that she will end her engagement with Percy, and she kisses him. He at first kisses her back, but pulls away again. He asks what kind of a cunning temptress is she, corrupting him like this? Not satisfied with how many suitors she has already? He brings up Mr. Tibbs and accuses her of manipulating him too on the Roylott case. (Perhaps also some allusion to the "most winning woman I ever knew" who poisoned three children for insurance money.)
She's stunned and hurt, calling him a bastard. He leaves and returns to London early, while she cries. Irene Adler now comforts her and tells Helen, "All men are selfish cowards!"
[Afterward, Wilhelm will try burglarizing Irene's home for the photograph, and she'll ask the Pinkertons for help as bodyguards to prevent her being waylaid and searched. She'll eventually move to England to try to escape Wilhelm too.]
Meanwhile Helen leaves New York for England again. She visits her aunt Honoria first, to confess her heartbreak, and to admit guiltily that she had not loved Percy.
"I know dear. I sensed it when I realized that you were writing letters constantly to that detective, and yet Percy had hardly a word from you. I knew you'd need time to sort things out." Whenever Percy complained to Honoria about the postponed wedding, Honoria told him to be patient, because Helen was effectively mourning Julia's death and their mother's all over again. "She cannot think of marriage now."
Helen realizes that shouldn't have strung Percy along, when he could have married some other girl by now. So she goes to visit Percy in Crane Water. Apologises and gives him back his engagement ring.
Percy asks why she doesn't love him. Weren't they friends once, and why wasn't that enough?
Helen frowns. "To be honest, it was when you didn't believe me about Julia's death, and dismissed my fears."
Percy says that he was trying to soothe her, to remind her to be rational instead of suspicious like Julia had been. "You and I both used to discuss how Julia was unfairly prejudiced against Dr. Roylott, and I thought that's what you'd want me to keep doing. I'm sorry. How was I to know that your stepfather really was guilty of murder?"
Helen nods and understands him better. She wishes him good luck in finding a new bride, and they part.
She goes to visit the Surrey County police and finds Tibbs promoted there. Seeing her without her engagement ring, he now has enough courage to propose to her. She is flattered and warm but protests that it is too soon. Would seem heartless and callous to Percy. Tibbs agrees to wait, but is happy to know that she does like him and disregards any social class issues. She leaves without changing her story on Roylott's death.
Helen returns to Harrow to discuss her talks with Percy and Tibbs. Writes to Irene also about these and wonders what she wants to do. Ponders contacting Dr. Watson as well.
After some time passes, she returns to inquire whether Tibbs is still interested, or has met some other girl, as Percy has. Tibbs is very interested still, and is even prepared with a ring to propose to her formally.
She's stunned and kisses his cheek again. She warns him that they must get to know each other better, and he nods, clinging to her hand. Still smiling at each other, she agrees to come to his house for tea.
While they sit talking of all that's happened since they last met, she reaches for his hand and asks him to kiss her. He at first kisses just her hand, but she wants more. She is recalling how H reacted to her kiss, and she needs to know that Tibbs's feelings can survive a real kiss. So he moves to the sofa where she sits, and they kiss. She enjoys it and they get carried away, embracing. She asks him to repeat his proposal, so that she can accept it. He does so, and they smile tenderly at each other.
Set the SCAN events five years later in 1889, when the now King of Bohemia becomes obnoxious in his efforts to retrieve the photograph from Irene, who's still nursing a heartache and wounded pride even though Godfrey has been trying to win her affections and her trust, however slowly. After suffering burglaries and such nuisances, she threatens to send the photograph to the King's fiancée, just to spite him. He plays himself off as the victim of her malicious intents, and Holmes and Watson are initially fooled. But their eyes are opened after Irene has fled. Holmes keeps the photo of her and updates his index books, but he doesn't recall his brief personal acquaintance with her.
After SCAN, Holmes opens a letter from Helen about Irene; he had ignored it earlier in his eagerness to share the case with Watson. He writes her back to tell her what has occurred. She answers by confessing her (distant) part in the affair, and apologising. Thus he finally recognises and recalls Irene from the 1884 visit which he has tried so hard to forget.
As for her marriage, Irene disappears to the Continent with Godfrey, then the Nortons fake their deaths to fool the King into abandoning any further pursuit. They tell Helen of this through coded telegrams, and she offers them her name for an alias. So they start new lives on the Continent using the name of Stoner.
Holmes also thinks about how Helen's invisible hand, even now, touches his life. She can correct his errors and faults even after all these years and this long distance. How extraordinary. How... lonely.
More about Helen's engagement to Tibbs is in my previously posted Helen notes, although I did change Holmes's 1890 Reunion with Helen.
Irene does not mean that Holmes is literally a Pinkerton anymore. He used to be, but realized that he didn't want to be a private eye like them, and he returned to England to be a "consulting detective" instead. Still, they taught him useful skills like handling firearms, working with police, tailing suspects, etc., and he remembers them fondly.
Read more
I previously posted a version of this on my Geocities website, but I've added onto it with stuff about Irene Adler and later Percy Armitage. Generally trying to fill in more details from the outline.
I should revise it a little more to include Helen Stoner having a maid or something. Even though she learned to be quite independent in Stoke Moran, it still would not seem very respectable for her to travel to America and rent a house all by herself, let alone have a male guest. Perhaps instead Holmes intended to stay with Hargreave or the Pinkertons, but something or other came up and he took the spare room.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Story: Chapter 8 of DIM
Pairing: Holmes/Helen Stoner
Warnings: G, hetero
Irene Adler and the 1884 visit
How specifically does Irene Adler know the Pinkertons or the police? Did Detective Hargreave arrest her once while she was walking around New York in male costume, and she had to explain herself as practising her role for the opera? Then she just decided to keep dropping by for fun? Or she somehow gets into a regular poker game or something with the policeman and the Pinkertons. This would have to be sometime after Holmes's "missing year in America" in 1874; he would be back in London by the time that Irene Adler joins their group.
Anyway, Irene meets them periodically when not in Europe singing, and Helen Stoner arrives in about 1883-4, after her SPEC case. Then Irene meets the Crown Prince of Bohemia in Warsaw, and they have a brief romance, which Irene soon regrets.
What had made her lose her good sense then, with that Crown Prince? Wilhelm had seemed cynical and utterly amused by the social game that he saw through as well. He treated Irene as worldly wise, but refrained from certain assumptions and from insulting her intelligence. He had been intriguing and original in his manner and his courtship of her, coming to observe her at certain cast rehearsals. He had called her a woman of steel, applauding her fencing skills on the stage. He had arranged a most silly, but lovely photograph of themselves standing together; she was in male costume at the time, but he affectionately kept his arm around her waist all the same. She had thought that she met her true kin in this man, and indulged in the indiscretion of falling in love with him, of all things.
But she hadn't counted on his being cowardly and treacherous. When the matter of the succession to his father's throne came into some dispute, he deferred quite immediately to his advisers who warned of scandal and gossip. Suddenly he became the stern soul of discretion and propriety, packing her and her bags off to parts elsewhere, without a kind goodbye or note of apology. He portrayed himself as entrapped, even planting the seeds of rumour about some supposed attempt of hers at blackmail, to make sure that she would be shunned out of the national opera house and indeed, out of Bohemia. It was a selfishly brutal move that wounded her heart more than anything else he might have done. He had changed, his prior sweetness now overwhelmed by expediency and his arrogant belief that the world revolved around him.
So Irene had fled home to America, and had come upon Helen Stoner's doorstep unexpectedly, suddenly needing support and kindness and womanly friendship as she had truly never needed them before. She felt somewhat ridiculous pounding on that door, when she had known Helen as only an acquaintance previously, part of her social circle in New York.
Helen Stoner was an Englishwoman who had been suffocatingly sheltered all her life, and now that she had independent means, wished to taste some wide and diverse life experiences, even to the dismay of her fiancé back in England. She was surprisingly unsnobby about social class as well, welcoming all sorts into her rented rooms in New York. She came to the circle as a friend to policeman Wilson Hargreave and even some Pinkerton detectives, having received a rather exclusive introduction from a former agent.
Irene had spoken with her politely, but hardly knew her. Certainly not enough to come pounding on her door tonight in this frantic, illogical state. But Helen Stoner it was. Irene tried to stay focused and proud once she realised that she came unexpectedly upon Helen and her visitor. (This proper Englishwoman with a man staying in her house? An odd idea.) But Irene had uncontrollably broken down into tears and apologies, even as she insisted that she would not intrude. Helen would take none of her protests, bringing her inside.
"Holmes, this is Irene," she murmured. Then she asked with a silent look, "Do you mind?" and just as silently he nodded to her request and slipped away, going up the stairs as if fully comfortable and familiar with the house.
Irene and Helen then had a nice long talk, and after her thorough cry, Irene felt better enough to insist again that she would go. Helen protested the lateness of the hour and urged her to stay the night, only yielding finally to Irene's insistence that the sitting-room sofa would do for her. Irene apologised again and asked if she had not been rude to Helen's guest. "Mr--?"
"Holmes," she answered. "The detective I told you of--Sherlock Holmes."
"London Pinkerton," Irene nodded, recalling how Helen had earlier described the man. "Detecting another case?" she ventured.
"No," she said, rather sharply. After an awkward pause, she elaborated, "Visiting, that's all. We have mutual friends in New York and London."
"Oh." Irene watched Helen rise and go fetch some linens and blankets for her. "Helen?"
She did not turn around. "Yes?"
"Am I--Did I interrupt... something?"
Helen stared long and silently into the linen closet. "No." She left it at that.
They made the sofa as a bed and then said good-night. Helen turned out the lights and went up the stairs.
Much later, awake after a fitful sleep, Irene heard the sound of whispers. She crept from the sitting-room and peered out to find the door across the hall ajar. The hearth fire lit and glowing upon them, Helen and her guest sat upon the floor in their night-clothes and dressing gowns, murmuring back and forth.
Irene discerned only that he appeared to be showing her some card game, and meanwhile telling stories of how some Pinkertons had taught it to him long ago. She laughed and happily clapped at each successful turn she played. Even when he won this "admittedly irregular game", she remained amused and dropped her cards with a shrug. She yawned and blinked.
He leaned near and patted her hand softly, murmuring that he kept her too late. She smiled and leaned against his shoulder, returning his caress.
After a pause, he reached up and touched her face very faintly, as though only to brush aside her stray, disordered hair. But he lingered, and they were both silent, almost... expectant, for some moments. His eventual letting go and looking away seemed to explain why they had risked coming downstairs, rather than meet in either's bedroom. There seemed so much more to risk upstairs, than here below.
He only stared into the fire, while Helen stared at him.
Helen decides the next day to tell Holmes that she will end her engagement with Percy, and she kisses him. He at first kisses her back, but pulls away again. He asks what kind of a cunning temptress is she, corrupting him like this? Not satisfied with how many suitors she has already? He brings up Mr. Tibbs and accuses her of manipulating him too on the Roylott case. (Perhaps also some allusion to the "most winning woman I ever knew" who poisoned three children for insurance money.)
She's stunned and hurt, calling him a bastard. He leaves and returns to London early, while she cries. Irene Adler now comforts her and tells Helen, "All men are selfish cowards!"
[Afterward, Wilhelm will try burglarizing Irene's home for the photograph, and she'll ask the Pinkertons for help as bodyguards to prevent her being waylaid and searched. She'll eventually move to England to try to escape Wilhelm too.]
Meanwhile Helen leaves New York for England again. She visits her aunt Honoria first, to confess her heartbreak, and to admit guiltily that she had not loved Percy.
"I know dear. I sensed it when I realized that you were writing letters constantly to that detective, and yet Percy had hardly a word from you. I knew you'd need time to sort things out." Whenever Percy complained to Honoria about the postponed wedding, Honoria told him to be patient, because Helen was effectively mourning Julia's death and their mother's all over again. "She cannot think of marriage now."
Helen realizes that shouldn't have strung Percy along, when he could have married some other girl by now. So she goes to visit Percy in Crane Water. Apologises and gives him back his engagement ring.
Percy asks why she doesn't love him. Weren't they friends once, and why wasn't that enough?
Helen frowns. "To be honest, it was when you didn't believe me about Julia's death, and dismissed my fears."
Percy says that he was trying to soothe her, to remind her to be rational instead of suspicious like Julia had been. "You and I both used to discuss how Julia was unfairly prejudiced against Dr. Roylott, and I thought that's what you'd want me to keep doing. I'm sorry. How was I to know that your stepfather really was guilty of murder?"
Helen nods and understands him better. She wishes him good luck in finding a new bride, and they part.
She goes to visit the Surrey County police and finds Tibbs promoted there. Seeing her without her engagement ring, he now has enough courage to propose to her. She is flattered and warm but protests that it is too soon. Would seem heartless and callous to Percy. Tibbs agrees to wait, but is happy to know that she does like him and disregards any social class issues. She leaves without changing her story on Roylott's death.
Helen returns to Harrow to discuss her talks with Percy and Tibbs. Writes to Irene also about these and wonders what she wants to do. Ponders contacting Dr. Watson as well.
After some time passes, she returns to inquire whether Tibbs is still interested, or has met some other girl, as Percy has. Tibbs is very interested still, and is even prepared with a ring to propose to her formally.
She's stunned and kisses his cheek again. She warns him that they must get to know each other better, and he nods, clinging to her hand. Still smiling at each other, she agrees to come to his house for tea.
While they sit talking of all that's happened since they last met, she reaches for his hand and asks him to kiss her. He at first kisses just her hand, but she wants more. She is recalling how H reacted to her kiss, and she needs to know that Tibbs's feelings can survive a real kiss. So he moves to the sofa where she sits, and they kiss. She enjoys it and they get carried away, embracing. She asks him to repeat his proposal, so that she can accept it. He does so, and they smile tenderly at each other.
Set the SCAN events five years later in 1889, when the now King of Bohemia becomes obnoxious in his efforts to retrieve the photograph from Irene, who's still nursing a heartache and wounded pride even though Godfrey has been trying to win her affections and her trust, however slowly. After suffering burglaries and such nuisances, she threatens to send the photograph to the King's fiancée, just to spite him. He plays himself off as the victim of her malicious intents, and Holmes and Watson are initially fooled. But their eyes are opened after Irene has fled. Holmes keeps the photo of her and updates his index books, but he doesn't recall his brief personal acquaintance with her.
After SCAN, Holmes opens a letter from Helen about Irene; he had ignored it earlier in his eagerness to share the case with Watson. He writes her back to tell her what has occurred. She answers by confessing her (distant) part in the affair, and apologising. Thus he finally recognises and recalls Irene from the 1884 visit which he has tried so hard to forget.
As for her marriage, Irene disappears to the Continent with Godfrey, then the Nortons fake their deaths to fool the King into abandoning any further pursuit. They tell Helen of this through coded telegrams, and she offers them her name for an alias. So they start new lives on the Continent using the name of Stoner.
Holmes also thinks about how Helen's invisible hand, even now, touches his life. She can correct his errors and faults even after all these years and this long distance. How extraordinary. How... lonely.
More about Helen's engagement to Tibbs is in my previously posted Helen notes, although I did change Holmes's 1890 Reunion with Helen.
Irene does not mean that Holmes is literally a Pinkerton anymore. He used to be, but realized that he didn't want to be a private eye like them, and he returned to England to be a "consulting detective" instead. Still, they taught him useful skills like handling firearms, working with police, tailing suspects, etc., and he remembers them fondly.
Read more
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