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For a week, Holmes' attention had been fully engaged upon the Friesland affair.
(The tale of that ship and its incendiary cargo may one day be told in its entirety, but it is no exaggeration when I say that to do so now, even several years later, would be to rock the very highest echelons of society.)
The case, for all its high-flown political importance, had come to a rather mundane and violent conclusion, which had left us both a little the worse for wear.
We had a weary trudge of several streets before there were cabs to be had, and when at last one pulled up, I do believe it was only the fact of our respectable dark attire, against which no blood stains would show in a dimly-lit street, which saved us an even longer and wearier walk.
As it was, we returned to Baker Street past midnight, creeping up the steps as softly as we could lest we wake Mrs Hudson. The street outside was as quiet as the inside — it was a Wednesday night, and no sensible person was out at this hour if they could help it.
We were both rather exhausted, ourselves, and scarcely a word was needed between us to unanimously agree upon a brandy in front of the fire.
Holmes shed his coat with a wince, and I looked up at the soft hiss of his breath, starting when I caught sight of his left sleeve. "Holmes, you're bleeding!"
"Hardly at all," Holmes said easily, tossing his coat over the back of a chair. Satisfied with himself and still thrilling, despite any mere physical weariness, to the excitement of a chase—a fight—a victory, he was evidently prepared to be cavalier about it. Still, at the sight of my raised brows, he relented with a smile. Undoing his cuff link one-handed, he began rolling the sleeve in question back to the elbow.
"You see? It looks worse than it feels, I assure you. And you can see the bleeding has all but stopped."
Shooing him into his chair, I caught his wrist in both hands, turning his forearm this way and that. "You never told me he actually got you," I murmured.
Holmes was right, as he usually was: the graze, while long, was not deep. "Don't move," I ordered, hoisting myself back onto my weary feet to fetch my bag and a clean, wet cloth. When I returned, Holmes remained in his chair, obediently waiting—though he had taken the liberty of pulling my armchair rather closer to his, no doubt to save me having to crouch down to one knee on the carpet.
Far from discomfited by the mild pain, Holmes sat through my meticulous cleaning of the cut with a small smile. Even when I determined that a portion of it ought to have stitches, and set about my needlework, that warm, gently ironic expression never changed.
"Oughtn't we to inform Inspector Lestrade?" I asked. I was half-distracted by my stitching, but the thought niggled at me. We'd left three men in an alley, after all—unconscious, but very much alive.
"Hmm?" Holmes blinked, seemingly awoken from deep thought. "Oh, you mean those charming gentlemen? I doubt that will be necessary. Their motives were strictly mercenary. And I already sent a wire to my brother before we left Baker Street. The execrable behaviour of Her Majesty's civil servants is his problem, now." He let out a low chuckle. "I shouldn't wonder but he'll be delighted. I know he's had suspicions, long before tonight. He told me once he suspected one of them of being in with the Professor. Nothing could be proven, of course."
Even now, the mere mention of the man was like the invoking of an evil ghost. "Then good riddance," I growled. I was perhaps a little more vehement than I'd intended, for it put another curious smile on Holmes' face.
"Good old Watson," he murmured.
For no very good reason, I felt my ears grow hot. I returned my attention to my work, which was commonplace enough. But for all that, the sensation of Holmes' wiry forearm resting comfortably atop my thigh, the steadiness of his pulse and the familiar sharp point of his ulna when I'd wrapped my fingers around his wrist... it all made my own heart beat faster.
It was not apprehension—I could not even ascribe it to the excitement of the new or forbidden, for Holmes was neither of those things to me. But it had been a long time, rather longer than just these past three years, since I'd been so casually entrusted with his person. He felt wonderfully real and alive to me in this moment, as I sat in the quiet of our old sitting room, making rather free—if I'm honest—with Holmes' solid, tangible body.
At last, when I'd delayed about as long as professional thoroughness could excuse, I pronounced myself satisfied with stitching and dressing, and sat back in my chair.
By this time, Holmes had been officially a denizen of the land of the living for a little over a month, and it was only now, I believe, that the shock was beginning to wear off. Certainly, this past week was the first in which I hadn't been plagued by dreams that his miraculous return had, itself, been a dream. Even so, there was a certain quiet joy simply in looking at him.
We sat in exhausted, companionable silence for a while, sipping our brandies and contemplating the fire, until Holmes, evidently to the great surprise of himself as much as me, opened his mouth to speak and was cut off by a terrific yawn.
"I do apologise, Watson," he said politely, his frown giving away his impatience at the lapse.
"Not at all, my dear fellow. — Well," I said, thinking of my empty house in Kensington with no great enthusiasm. I swirled the finger of brandy in my snifter, then drank it off with resolve. "I'd better be off. I still have my round to make in the morning."
I got to my feet, suppressing a groan as I did so. I did not quite shudder at the prospect of the morrow—even if I left at once, I should be getting rather less than five hours of sleep—but it was a near thing.
"Nonsense, Watson," Holmes said at once, waving a hand. "Mrs Hudson particularly charged me to tell you that your bedroom is made up for you. It's far too late to be going anywhere tonight."
"And how would that look," I laughed sleepily, feeling touched all the same as I collected my bag and my gloves, "if I make my rounds in the morning in the same shirt I was wearing tonight? To say nothing of how it would smell. I do have some reputation for respectability left," I teased, "despite everything."
"You may borrow one of mine," Holmes countered. "It wouldn't be the first time."
I paused, momentarily stumped.
"You must concede it's by far the most sensible solution," Holmes pressed, in his usual assured manner. "Your bag is already here, after all. Besides which—" As abruptly as he had began, he stopped.
I waited, curious, while Holmes took a sip of his brandy. He appeared to be marshalling himself in some way. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.
"Besides which, I would consider it a great favour," he said, so earnestly that I turned fully round, my eyes riveted to his face. He took a deep breath. "The truth is, my dear fellow, I should like nothing better than for you to occupy these rooms with me again. The rent, of course, I can easily manage on my own, or we can go halves again, if you prefer. You needn't agree at once," he hastened to add, seeing me open my mouth. "Only think it over, and know that you're most heartily welcome to stay, at any time." Holmes swallowed. "Indefinitely, if you wish."
I stood as though rooted to the carpet, gazing at his dear face. It was thinner now even than it had been, and sharper than ever. Though the pallor of his ordeal had finally faded, the jet of his hair was lightly streaked with white at the temples, and his hands were more peculiarly scarred than ever before. Somehow all of these things only served to make him all the more Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes was telling me that he loved me still.
I could not help but be reminded, with a pang of inexpressible fondness, of how stridently faux-casual he had been the first time, all those many years ago. Lounging at his ease and smoking a cigarette, he'd tried so furiously hard. The very nonchalance of his demeanour had been so grating as to almost make me refuse him out of hand, before I'd realised it was all an act.
Setting down my things on his sideboard, I stepped over to his chair. Holmes gazed up at me, grey eyes wide and unwavering, the hope and dread in them obvious to me now as it hadn't been more than a decade earlier.
I laid a gentle hand on his cheek, and Holmes closed his eyes. His hand wrapped around my wrist.
"Not now," I said gently. "I can't."
Holmes nodded. Though his face remained upturned, he kept his eyes closed.
I took a deep breath of my own. I knew what I wanted to say: I'd known it as soon as he asked me. It was simply a matter of having the courage of my convictions. Bending down and ignoring the way my back protested, I pressed a single, light kiss to Holmes' thin mouth. "But soon," I promised.
Holmes' eyes snapped open as I straightened back up, bright as silver moons in the soft lamplight. His fingers released my wrist, though it may have been from shock more than anything else.
I picked up my things again. Then I quietly went to the hatstand to put on my coat and hat. When I turned round at the door, Holmes still sat in his chair, his profile outlined against the glow of the fire.
"Good night, Holmes."
"Good night, Watson."