FIC: "Intemperance" (1/2) Sherlock Holmes
Title: "Intemperance"
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Robert Downey Jr film)/Sherlock Holmes (book canon)
Word count: 17,857
Notes: Thanks to jacquez and the jack for beta.
If you trust me, continue reading. If you do not trust me (and why would you; in the past I've written parasitic mpreg, skullfucking, mouth-bleeding blow jobs, and surprise alien replacement; I wouldn't trust me, and I AM me), read the full headers, including the full title, on AOOO to see if you actually want to read this story.
*
I married Mary Morstan in January of 188-, shortly after the turning of the year. It was not a fashionable time to wed, but we had neither funds nor inclination for fashion. We moved into a tidy house in an unfashionable area, appropriate for a young physician and his wife. Consulting room and dining room on the ground floor, drawing room and bed-chamber on the first floor, maid's room and optimistic nursery on the second floor. I earned enough to provide us with a maid of all work and a part-time cook. Mary seemed happy; her parents were pleased.
I encouraged Mary to spread as many lace doilies as she saw fit. Damn Holmes anyway.
Holmes, for his part, set fire to the Baker Street lodgings. That spate of ill humour concluded, though, he accepted my marriage with no more than his usual bad grace, and merely showed up every day or two to demand entertainment; but even that declined as the weather heated and the criminal class stirred. I did, I confess, not infrequently join Holmes on his adventures.
As summer cooled into winter, Holmes retreated into his studies, declaring he would write a monograph on rail tickets or cigarette ash; indeed, during the whole month of November, I only saw him on those occasions when I called at Baker Street.
Therefore, when I opened the door to Holmes on a cold March night, it was quite ordinary. My maid had the evening off, so I performed my own necessary chores. I stood aside, waiting for him to push past me with his accustomed energy, but he did not. "Holmes? Are you all right?"
"No," he said. He doffed his hat and stepped inside while looking past me.
I shut the door behind him. "By God, man, tell me!"
"I do not know how," he said. At that, I took his elbow and ushered him up to the drawing room. If he had reached the point where he admitted to himself that he was unwell, then he was very ill indeed. He sat on the sofa and stared into the fire without once meeting my eyes. I removed his gloves and chafed his hands between mine to warm them.
Mary entered the room. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, I guessed it might be you. Is everything all right?" she asked. "You didn't take his coat, John."
"Yes," Holmes said. "The maid is not at home. That is crucial." He pulled away from me and rubbed his eyes.
"Holmes, please," I urged him.
"I find--" Holmes did not complete the sentence, but looked at Mary. "Mrs. Watson," he said.
"I'll leave you alone," Mary said, sweet woman.
"No! Far better for you to stay. If I must--you must stay, Mrs. Watson." Holmes started up, out of his seat. "I will explain."
But he did not. He stared at Mary as if lost. "Holmes," I said again.
"Yes, I have gone too far to discontinue," Holmes said, softly. He pulled his scarf from his neck and dropped it to the floor, followed by his gloves. Mary reached out her hand as he unbuttoned his coat, but Holmes turned away and faced the fire. I caught his overcoat as he dropped it.
Then, Holmes stripped out of his jacket, and before I could react, his waistcoat. He shrugged his braces from his shoulders and removed his shirt entirely. "Holmes!" I shouted, conscious of the modesty of my wife. Mary pressed her handkerchief to her mouth.
Holmes stood, bare to the waist, entirely indecent in my drawing room. Once I recovered from the shock I realized what he was showing me. His stomach was swollen grotesquely. He could not even button his trousers; once the support of the braces was absent, he had to hold his lower garments up with his hand.
"Let me see," I said. Such a large swelling, so quickly grown--for I had seen him in the boxing ring only three or four months ago--could only be a mortal affliction. "Were you injured?" It was a foolish question, but it was a doctor's question. I knelt and palpated the swelling and found it firm and regular.
"I'm neither injured nor ill, Watson."
I ignored such a preposterous statement, as I would ignore his cocaine ravings. My friend was intelligent, frighteningly so, but not always rational in the way of ordinary men. "Is there pain?" I asked him.
Holmes grabbed my hand where it rested on his stomach. "I am not ill, Watson. Listen to what I am telling you and take in all the facts, even the ones you ignore, even the ones your entire life tells you cannot be true. Use all your intellect, untainted by what you have learned. And look at me. Everything you need to know is here in front of you. I am not ill."
I looked into his eyes and saw desperation.
"Look at me for once, Watson," Holmes said.
I looked at Holmes, looked at his body. His limbs were wiry and strongly muscled, his skin pale and fine, though scarred. He bore knife scars on his ribs and chest, and white needle points along the veins of his arms. He bore no hair on his chest, though a few dark marks, not unlike a sailor's tattoo, gave that impression. His skin was brown on hands and face. He bore faint, sparse stubble on his upper lip; he was not a hairy man apart from his forearms.
His throat worked as I examined his body. I found him in good flesh, neither thin nor fat. His nipples were enlarged, I noted, concerned that could be a symptom of his abdominal disorder. There were finer, older scars hiding in the pale skin of his chest. A white line under his right nipple turned sharply and curved along the line of his ribs. There was the gunshot wound I had cleaned and sewn, healed to a jagged star. The swelling began under his stomach and extended down to the pelvis. I palpated the swelling as far as I could while leaving his trousers in place. "Holmes, we should retire to my consulting room. This is not the place."
Holmes let out an impatient breath. "Just see me, Watson!" he said. Mary gasped, suddenly, and sat down. "Your wife understands me. Can you? Please, Watson."
I shook my head. I could not imagine what he wanted me to see. I saw a man, my friend, whose body was quite familiar to me, with a terrible distortion that I could not diagnose without time and tests. I felt slight movement in his abdomen, as of gas, and guessed this might be an intestinal disorder, perhaps even cancer. His stomach was swollen much like a woman's in the middle progression of pregnancy. I remembered all I could of the anatomy of the abdomen and tried to guess what organs might be affected.
"I see why you insisted on my presence, Holmes," Mary said. She sniffed and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. "Yes, thank you. I am quite sure of my husband."
"Mary?" I looked at her, my hand still resting on Holmes's stomach.
"Oh, John," she said.
"You disappoint me terribly," Holmes said. His voice was cold. I believe he did not mean it in jest.
At that, he let his trousers fall to the floor, and I reacted perhaps not as quickly as I should have. "Holmes!" I cried. "For heaven's sake!" I pulled his trousers back up, my wife half gasping, half laughing behind my back, before I realized what I had not seen; before I realized, in fact, that Holmes was not exposing his membrum virile to my wife, for he did not have one.
Thus, when I realized at long last that my intimate friend Sherlock Holmes was not a male, I was kneeling in the most compromising of positions, my hands inside his clothing. I released him at once. His trousers fell to the floor again. My wife laughed at me. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh, John, you blind man!"
Holmes breathed heavily. I averted my face and looked at my wife instead of him. "Mary, how could I have guessed at such a thing?" I asked her.
"Yes, how indeed," Holmes said bitterly. "How can such a monster as myself exist?" I heard him pull his clothing into place.
Mary stood, all laughter gone. "Please, Sherlock, you must--" She reached out to him; he drew himself stiffly away.
"Do not, madam, imagine because I am not a male, I am necessarily a female," Holmes snapped.
"Your belly argues otherwise," she said, but did not press him further.
"You are pregnant," I said, simply to say the words aloud.
"Lacking a more suitable word, I yield to the diagnosis, Doctor Watson." Holmes picked up his shirt.
"Has the baby quickened?" Mary asked.
"Yes," I said, realizing what I had detected in his body. Not the movement of gas, but the movement of a child. I sat back on the carpet of my drawing room, my back against the sofa. "By God, Holmes! How did it happen?" I looked at him again and found I could not think of him as female. I certainly could not imagine him in a position--in a pose--in the arms of a man. Lying under a man, good God! Impossible.
"Despite your husband sharing quarters for several years with such a creature as myself, my condition has nothing to do with him, madam," Holmes told Mary. His tone was still as cold as I had ever heard from him.
"I understand fully," Mary said.
"I do not think you possibly could. Are you aware of the existence of sodomites?" Holmes asked. "Those men with an affinity for other men?"
He appeared to be asking me. "Of course," I said. I was a doctor, after all, and a soldier; I had witnessed my share of rendezvous under the Afghan moon. It was hardly the conduct of an English gentleman, but very little of soldiering was gentlemanly.
"They take me for one of their own," Holmes said. He twisted his mouth into something like a smile. "I am far more unchaste than you think me." His eyes raked over me as if I were some dog on the street. I could bear it no longer.
"Holmes, please do not blame me for my inability to guess something so far beyond everything I know!" I shouted.
"I shall blame as I like! I shall be angry as I like! I shall continue on my course!" Holmes roared in return.
I found my strength and pushed myself to my feet, carelessly bracing myself with my wounded arm. The bolt of pain only angered me further as I crossed the few steps to Holmes. "Then why come to me, if only to pity and berate me for my shocking ignorance?"
Holmes planted his feet and held his tongue, piercing my soul with his fierce dark gaze.
Mary touched my back. "Because, of course, he wishes us to take in his child and pass it as our own, John," she said. I unclenched my fists. Holmes lifted his chin.
I did not ask Holmes to confirm her deduction. In that moment, I could not bear to hear his voice. Her voice! A woman's voice, though he denied any feminine quality. My thoughts whirled around the essential pronoun.
"Again your wife out-races you. Another instance and I shall think badly of you."
"Oh, stop it! Come into my consulting room. I need to examine you." I gestured downstairs. "I assure you my wife will be present to ensure I do not take any liberties with your person."
"No, indeed. I have said all I intend to say tonight." Holmes donned his waistcoat over his loose shirt and pulled his jacket on over all. As he wrapped himself in clothing, his condition disappeared into nothing more than woollen layers. He put on overcoat and scarf and was a gentleman again. Without another word, he showed himself out.
I sat stiffly on the sofa. "Oh, Mary."
She lighted beside me and took my hand in hers. "I prefer not to feign a pregnancy," she said. "I am no liar. If we simply take the child in, we need not make excuses."
"Oh, Mary." I folded over, quite overcome, and rested my head in her lap. I did not know what to think; I thought a thousand things at once. Mostly I thought of my mad, stupid, wilful blindness. A medical man. I was a medical man.
"In fact, society will assume it is Holmes's natural child... and they will be perfectly correct," she mused, stroking my hair.
*
Sleep eluded me that night. I finally collapsed over my medical books, much as my dear (female!) friend was wont to do, as if I could absorb the information through my skin.
I resolved myself to visit Holmes alone the following morning. I walked. I needed the cold air on my face and the old ache of my shoulder to clarify my mind. I scarcely knew what etiquette demanded of the situation; I had lived with him in the greatest intimacy and never suspected that--that he was a woman? No. I could not think of Holmes as a woman, neither as a lady in a silk gown and diamonds, nor a working woman in brown stuff and bonnet, nor a fortune-telling gypsy, nor a gay girl lifting her skirt for shillings in the square. Nothing fit him.
I imagined him in Queen Victoria's crown and widow's weeds. That fit slightly better; he might don that as a disguise, or for a masquerade. I arrived at Baker Street as confused as I had begun. My former landlady answered the door with a pin loosening from her cap. Clearly Holmes was in a temper. "Mrs. Hudson," I greeted her.
"Mr. Watson," she sighed. "I'm glad to see you." She showed me inside, and I saw the cause of her alarm as I ascended the stairs. There was a broken teapot on the floor outside Holmes's room--a cheaply produced item, for Mrs. Hudson was no fool--and a brown stain down the stair. A cream cake was perched atop the bronze statue of an eagle in the hall.
I knocked. Mrs. Hudson retrieved the cream cake and retreated down the stairs. Holmes did not answer. "Holmes," I said. "Please, I must speak with you."
I waited. Holmes unlocked the door. "Come in, then," he said, in his soft, un-womanly voice. He wore his ragged dressing gown--a garment not aged, as one might think, but destroyed by contact with sulphuric acid in one of Holmes's experiments--pyjamas stolen from my wardrobe, and slippers. The distension of his abdomen was clearly visible once my eye knew what to seek.
His rooms were covered by his usual mess. A stack of letters sat on his desk; ordinarily I would peruse them, interested in his work, but this was not an ordinary visit, and I did not feel entirely welcome.
Holmes sat by the fire and stretched out his legs on the ottoman. I sat in the chair beside him, setting my hat, gloves, and cane on the floor beside the chair. "We would accept and love your child," I said.
"Yes, I know," Holmes said. He took up his tobacco pouch and filled his pipe.
"I never thought you a monster," I said. "An enigma, a contradiction, an eccentric, but never a monster."
Holmes did not respond. He looked away.
"I have so many questions! I consulted my books but they're sadly lacking." I leaned forward, but Holmes was impenetrable. He smoked without acknowledging my presence.
So I waited. I looked into the fire and breathed in the tendrils of Holmes's pipe smoke that surrounded me. Only after he finished his pipe did he speak. "There are a thousand methods to end a pregnancy. I took none of them. I told myself, tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, until last night I felt the child move, and I discovered my weakness. Now I find the process quite impossible," Holmes said.
"I am glad," I said.
"I am not." Holmes frowned. "I have no time for this nonsense. I have always striven to transcend my physical body."
"How did you do it?" I asked. "How is such a transformation possible?" I still saw Holmes's flat, manfully muscled chest in my mind's eye.
"Through effort and daring."
"Does your brother know?" His elder brother, Mycroft Holmes, was the only man in the world Sherlock acknowledged intellectually superior to himself.
"Of course. How could I hide from such a penetrating eye?"
"Please!"
Holmes smiled. "When I was born, my good parents thought I was a female, and my physique did not disprove that hypothesis. I'm informed I was a tolerably handsome girl. I had black ringlets, you see. Large eyes. Small, dainty feet." Holmes kicked off his slippers and examined his feet. They were far from dainty now, callused and scarred, the nail of the second toe of his left foot blackened and loose. "Oh, yes. Could you?" Holmes swung his foot into my lap.
"What did you kick?" I asked. I tested the nail and found it free of the bed; therefore, I ripped it away and tossed it into the fire, quenching the small spit of blood with my handkerchief.
"The kettle."
"In the battle of flesh and iron, I have discovered that flesh invariably loses," I told him. I found a plaster and iodine in a table drawer, where I had placed them during my residency in these rooms, and dressed his wound.
I looked at Holmes carefully while he refilled his pipe. His hair seemed more lustrous, I thought, and his cheeks were fuller. He was well-fleshed, if not yet plump. Holmes continued, "I was convinced, from an early age, that I would grow up to be a man. My mother told me I would become a woman and I refused to believe her. I stole my brother's clothes--"
"A lifelong affliction, then," I said. No part of my wardrobe was safe from Holmes's depredations.
Holmes sniffed. "Necessity. Both you and my brother possessed far more clothes than you ever needed, and I not nearly enough. Thank you," he said, removing his foot from my lap. "I lived in India for my first thirteen years. We had little contact with English society, yet my parents insisted that we live by English rules, no matter how stifling and ridiculous we found them. When I was eight, my mother died, and at thirteen, my father followed her. My brother was twenty-one and assumed my guardianship. He was well aware of my--" Holmes stopped here and waved his hand.
"Convictions?" I asked.
"My deformity. The error in my makeup. Mycroft believed me when I told him I was male in every other regard. And so, on the boat from Bombay to London, we booked passage as two brothers, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes learned to be a boy. I gave up my black ringlets with relish."
"What name did you receive at your christening?"
"I cannot recall," Holmes said.
"Monstrous lies."
"Then I do not wish to recall."
"So you learned the art of observation... by learning to be male?" I asked.
Holmes inclined his head. "I knew how to be a child, free and wild. I had been given the instructions for womanhood by my mother. I learned the rules of manhood on my own. Some are exceedingly odd, my dear fellow."
"But your body? You cannot tell me you can change that through will alone."
"Oh yes, my body." Holmes sneered. "Short stature I could not alter. But the trappings of girlhood, that daintiness and delicacy men like you so prize--"
"That is not what I see in Mary," I objected.
"And yet she is dainty, and pretty, and light. Those qualities are easily altered through physical activity. Sun browned and coarsened my skin. As I developed my musculature through fighting, running, and riding, I lost any girlish softness."
"I examined you, Holmes. You have done much more."
"I have," Holmes said.
"But how?"
"How what?"
"How did you do it?"
"Do what?"
"What did you do to your bosom?" I nearly shouted.
Holmes smiled in triumph at my outburst and answered: "A topical application of a cocaine derivative and an excellent set of knives."
I recoiled. "You--"
"Cut myself open and remade my body. More than once, in fact. I did not remove all the tissue in my first attempt. As for the rest, a solution of bull's testicles, regularly administered, has had an acceptable masculinising effect. I cannot copy your luxuriant moustache, but neither do I draw stares. Not for that. I appear to be what I am: A healthy, unfettered, vigorous--"
"Short," I said.
Holmes paused, his mouth open. "--man in the prime of life. You have recovered from your shock, I see."
"I shall never recover from this shock. I have decided to brush the dust from my boots and continue as a changed man."
He re-lit his pipe and blew a smoke ring in a thoughtful manner. "I thought you would discover me," Holmes said. "Surely, I thought, in such close quarters, I would make some error, betray myself in some way."
"Your eccentricities are so legion that I did not think to question the essential matter of your sex," I said. "I once stood in the room speaking to you as you were bathing and never saw. Nothing seemed amiss. I had no reason to peer beneath the water like Ahab looking for the whale."
"You would make a better detective if you were less polite."
"You're a marvel, Holmes. But you are showing," I said, looking down at his stomach. "In a matter of a fortnight or two, your condition will no longer be concealable. What do you plan?"
"To stay in my rooms until the entire ghastly business has concluded." Holmes struck his belly with his thumb.
"Mrs. Hudson is not so blind. I assure you, you will be found out. No, I believe I have a plan. Lie down before the fire."
Holmes raised his eyebrows but obeyed. I looked around for water, tea, some sort of liquid; I discovered a vase containing a wilted opium poppy and cast the flower aside, using the water to bedeck Holmes's brow with dew. I then pinched blood into his cheeks. "There. Now you look feverish. Attempt listlessness."
"I see," Holmes said. He closed his eyes and languished on the carpet.
I crossed to the door and opened it. "Mrs. Hudson? Holmes is unwell! Please call a carriage."
*
Holmes maintained an excellent impression of a febrile faint during the coach ride and all the way up the stairs to the nursery. We kept an extra bed there--and the old crib Mary's mother had saved for us, for we were hopeful, ever hopeful.
Holmes glared at me. Before the fire, Gladstone snored loudly.
"Are you ever going to speak to me again?" I asked. I set a nightcap on his head and tucked his unruly hair under the brim. Ringlets, indeed.
Mary smiled and poured Holmes a cup of tea. "Sugar?" she asked.
"He takes it very sweet," I said.
"I! Am not! Ill!" Holmes roared.
"Well done. You're playing your part perfectly. Now, I'll take a house by the sea. Bournemouth is lovely this time of year. Sea air will cure your debilitating chest infection in, at an estimate, four months."
Mary handed him the tea. "I will go mad," Holmes said.
"You've gone months without a case before. Mrs. Hudson will forward your letters. Perhaps you'll discover a new hobby."
"Hobby!" Holmes spat back. "Prison!"
"I can teach you to knit, embroider, paint, and play the piano. I am also qualified in botany, history, grammar, and use of the globes," Mary said.
"Excellent, Mary. Holmes is well up in geography but sadly deficient in knowledge of the heavens."
Holmes thrust himself back against the pillows and covered his eyes with his arm. "Torturers," he breathed.
*
We moved quickly, from necessity. I did not know how long Holmes could remain concealed in the nursery, whether from the necessary activities of our maid or his own restless peregrination. Mary packed our clothes and I packed my study, paying particular attention to volumes concerning gestation, parturition and the complications thereof. Mary arranged for the maid to stay at the London house and keep it aired. I might, after all, need to return to London to see a patient. A four-month holiday in the country would be a strain on our finances, but I felt no compunction in drawing upon Holmes's. I was thoroughly aware of his current state of affluence.
I then travelled to Baker Street to pack his clothes and essentials, and advance Mrs. Hudson the rent. Mary called on her friends to let them know she would be leaving town. These chores complete, we were prepared to leave for Bournemouth in the morning. I tapped on the guest bedroom door. "No entry!" Holmes cried.
"This is my house," I said, opening the door. I found Holmes sitting before the fire, dressed as I had left him in pyjamas and nightcap, but pressing a handkerchief to his eyes. "Oh," I said. I closed the door behind me.
"I am not distressed. My body has turned against me in the most ridiculous of ways." Holmes sniffed, angrily, and started up from the chair. He blew his nose. "Three months ago I desired oranges with a passion that overwhelmed me. Last month I could not eat a meal without fish. I have not been able to tolerate alcohol since this miserable condition began. Now I weep without cause. Four months, Watson? I cannot stand four minutes!" Holmes cast the handkerchief into the fire, or tried to. It fluttered limply onto the hearth.
"My dear Holmes," I said. I walked the few paces to his side and took his arm in mine.
Holmes gripped my hand. "But now that I have resolved to carry on, I must exercise patience and nurture the child well."
"You're a man of great will."
"I am not a man," Holmes said, looking at me under his lashes.
"Are you doing this to torment me? You tell me you are a man, then not a man, then a man again, and now no longer a man? Please, enlighten me, so that I know how to act!"
"Act as if I am your friend."
"Whether you are my female friend or my male friend makes a considerable difference."
Holmes scoffed. "Etiquette. Do you know that in India, there is a third sex called hijra? They begin life as boys and dedicate themselves to the goddess Bahuchara Mata by cutting off their sexual organs. The Queen, in her wisdom, has outlawed their practices as indecent."
"I'll thank you not to insult the Queen under my roof," I said.
"I did not insult the Queen. I mentioned her wisdom."
"There was a tone, Holmes."
"I heartily apologize." He scrubbed his face with the sleeve of his pyjamas. "My brother told me of the third sex after my own transformation. I was utterly ignorant as a girl. Told nothing, hidden from everything. I had everything to learn. I stuffed my memory full at random before I learned to--ah, Watson, I'm rambling."
"Please, I wish to understand."
"I am without focus. My mind feels soft and swollen. I'm terribly hungry. You dine at seven; what time is it?"
"Six-thirty. I'll bring up a tray."
"A third sex, and I am a fourth. Perhaps there are more. Clear your mind of preconception, Watson!" Holmes called after me as I fled the room.
*
I watched Mary undress for bed. Her long hair spilled over her white shoulders like honey. She released the busk of her corset and sighed with relief, breathing deeply as she hung the corset from the hook beside her petticoats. "Why do you wear stays?" I asked her.
Mary turned and smiled. She has a crooked smile, made uneven by her crooked teeth, but it is all the more beautiful for its unpractised, natural qualities. "Because I wish to look as well as I can," she said.
"But we're married now. You have ensnared me with your beauty. You are quite free to join the Rational Dress Society," I said.
Mary stepped up to the bed and took my head in her hands. "I can see when Holmes possesses you. I believe your hair turns darker. I wish to look well, just as you wish to look well, and we both wish our house to look well, so that we keep a respectable appearance and you continue to earn money as a physician. How many of your patients would come to a house run by a woman in trousers and headed by a Bohemian?" She kissed my forehead.
"Ah yes. We ordinary people do not have the freedom of Holmes."
"Holmes created his own path."
I took her hands in mine. "You must tell me if this is too difficult for you. I feel as though no man has ever asked so much of his wife."
"John!" she laughed. "Don't be absurd. I am prepared to bear your children; surely I can help your friend bear his."
"I intended to offer you a respectable home, not scandal and subterfuge."
"In fact you offered me fistfights, black magic, and Holmes in a false beard. I still accepted. Deduce me," she said. "What is my attitude toward a little adventure?"
"Mary, you angel," I said.
"No angel. A mortal woman, through and through."
*
In the morning I carried Holmes to the coach as I had carried him down the stairs from his rooms. He flopped limply in my arms, playing illness better than a stage actor. I had to lift Gladstone into the coach as well. The dog was nearly as lazy as Holmes.
I treated him exactly as if he were one of my pneumonia patients. I tucked warm rugs around him and checked his pulse. The disgusted looks he gave me were entirely un-needed, I thought.
"I'm hungry," Holmes said. "I must have food immediately."
"We had breakfast not an hour ago and the train station is twenty minutes away," I told him.
"There is a living creature inside me and it demands sustenance!"
Mary snapped open her large travelling bag and withdrew a small parcel wrapped in paper. "I have had some experience of women in a delicate condition," she said, handing the parcel to Holmes.
"I am in no sense a woman," Holmes growled, but he took the parcel, which proved to be a pie.
"But all those with child I have previously known have been women," Mary said. "My statement was precise and accurate."
Holmes eyed her askance, eating the pie.
Mary continued, "I have so desired to know you better, Mr. Holmes. What a chance this shall be!"
"I did not desire to know you at all."
"Holmes!" I cried. "If you cannot be polite to my wife I will leave you by the side of the road like the sack of old clothes you resemble!"
Holmes choked on the pie. He laughed, lips closed, hand clapped over his mouth.
"I understand. Emotions run high when you're in this state." Mary leaned forward and patted his knee.
Holmes coughed and glared at us both. Gladstone pillowed his head on Holmes's shoe.
Once we transferred to the train, Holmes fixed Mary with a calculating gaze. "Holmes," I said.
"Yes?"
"Don't."
"I believe Mrs. Watson is entirely capable of defending herself from the feeble attack of an invalid," Holmes said.
"He has already accused me of a mercenary interest in your purse. Can he do worse and yet remain truthful?" Mary asked.
I took her hand. "Please, Mary, for the love of God and all the angels, do not challenge him, for he will take up the glove despite your sex."
"As he should. I am not afraid."
I resigned myself to disaster. I kissed Mary's hand, only praying that divorce would not ensue. Holmes, wrapped up well and stroking Gladstone's head absently, regarded us both.
"You have been married for a year," Holmes said at length. "You are clearly physically enamoured--"
"Holmes! Some decency!"
"Decency, of course. How thoughtless of me to mention copulation to a married woman."
"Holmes--" Was this, then, why Holmes disdained the company of women? Was he so wholly incapable of curbing his tongue?
"I never dreamed you were so sensitive, old man. You blush like a convent girl. Your wife is not nearly as retiring." Holmes kicked my foot. "I exposed myself to you, body and soul, and you baulk now?"
"My husband and I couple every other day," Mary said.
"Mary!"
"He would deduce it if I did not own it," Mary said. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, our marriage is a success in this regard."
"You fear you are barren," Holmes said.
"Yes." Mary sounded quite calm.
"You were delighted at my exposure, not as disturbed as you should have been. Yes, I should have seen this before. You will overlook my scandalous nature because you want a child so very much, and the nearest thing to Watson's child is mine. Perhaps even superior."
"No, you are wrong in that last," Mary said.
"But not in the rest."
"Not at all. But I am afraid, Mr. Holmes, that John's child would be far handsomer than yours; also cheerfuller. But I am content with a plain, morose infant if the alternative is no infant at all."
"Handsomer?" Holmes's hand clenched on Gladstone's ear. Gladstone emitted a muffled grunt.
"Far handsomer," Mary said, squeezing my hand.
"His hair is nearly red!"
"His features are regular and his teeth are excellent. He is tall and manly. Then, of course, there is his fine moustache. My husband is several grades handsomer than yourself, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes's nostrils flared and he threw himself back into the seat. I realized, to my very great amazement, that Mary had won.
I loved her more than ever.
*
The remainder of our journey was very pleasant, though Holmes spoke Latin in his sleep.
I took a cottage in the village of D--, near Bournemouth, with a high garden wall so that my friend could take his exercise unseen. Directly upon arriving, he decided to polish his skills at fencing. When I reminded him that he was an invalid, and that his cries and whoops carried across the countryside, he gagged himself with his scarf.
I retreated to the kitchen, where Mary was preparing dinner with the help of Mrs. Beeton's vast Book and Gladstone was stretched out beside the stove, oblivious and content. Mary was a novice in the craft of cooking; she had been a governess, after all, and that was not among her duties. We did not feel we could risk a maidservant in this country house and hired a charwoman from the village instead.
"He seems more animated," Mary said.
I kissed her. "I see that dinner is this handsome fowl."
"Yes. I'm boiling it; the method seems simple and quick. I quite fear Sherlock's stomach if I'm wrong."
The layout of the cottage was thus: On the ground floor, a dining-parlour to the left of the front door and the drawing room to the right. Behind, the kitchen and servant's bedchamber. On the first floor, the largest bedchamber sat to the right, over the drawing room, while the bedroom to the left was constricted by the linen closet. With some regret, Mary and I took the smaller room. Holmes would chafe enough at his confinement without my attempting to place him in a small room. A chimney rose from each front room to the corresponding bedroom above, with the kitchen chimney providing additional heat to the larger bedroom. The kitchen communicated to the back garden through a simple door sheltered by a large overhang. The back garden contained the outdoor water closet, shed, and abundant rose garden. The cottage lacked plumbing entirely, water being provided by a well. The furniture was at least ten years old, but well enough made to admit no complaint from our party.
After he tired himself fencing, Holmes tested the water with his microscope, having insisted that we bring as much of his apparatus as possible. "Ah," he said. "Quite safe. I see no sign of Salmonella, and the cesspit seems well constructed." He took a drink, rolling it around his mouth with great care. "No excessive metals or other contaminants. Well done, old man, you haven't poisoned us."
"Bravo! Health and long life!" Mary cried from the kitchen.
I stood in the parlour door, incredulous. "Are the pair of you colluding to laugh at my expense? Joining together like a gang of common criminals?"
"Please, Watson, were I a criminal, I would be a very un-common one." Holmes tossed back the water and pushed past me into the kitchen. "Dear Mrs. Watson, please do not reduce me to gnawing on calf-skin volumes for my nourishment."
"There's bread and butter. Dinner will be ready when it's ready."
Holmes glanced into the pot. "Fourteen minutes," he said. I heard rattling and entered fully into the kitchen to rescue the stock from Holmes's attention. "Where is the bread knife?" Holmes asked, looking into the cupboard.
"It's by the bread," I said. I cut him a slice. The landlord had provided us with a small but entirely satisfactory supply of foodstuffs. We would receive deliveries of food from the local merchants. We had everything we needed here, so that we could stay in perfect seclusion.
Holmes grunted. "My brain is failing me. I blame the child. I shall be an imbecile by the time I deliver." He snatched the bread from my hand and spread it heavily with butter.
"You'll recover," Mary said.
*
I posted a notice of my availability for medical consultation, but as there was a physician in residence of long standing and rather cheaper rates than I, as a Londoner, could offer, I soon found myself utterly without occupation. I began to feel some share of the restlessness which daily so overwhelmed my friend. I became engrossed for a time in Mary's ongoing culinary education. She, however, found Holmes more useful.
"Sherlock!" Mary cried one morning. On the counter beside the oven was a brown and rock-hard pan of scones. "Come tell me what I did wrong!" I was startled to hear her cry so loud. At home, she was soft and low of tone.
Holmes bounded down the stairs two at a time. "Oh! Currants, Mrs. Watson. A shocking waste of currants!" He prodded the stony pastries like they were specimens for dissection.
"Tell me what I did."
"The egg. Six eggs arrived this morning, four were consumed during breakfast. Two each for you and your good husband, none for me due to this damnable child." Holmes twisted his mouth. He had eaten a fried egg the previous day and had only just exited the kitchen door before purging it from his stomach. He continued, "After the interruption of the butcher boy, you resumed your labours, saw the single egg remaining in the rack, and thought you had used the other in the batter. You did not know that I had particular need of the albumen of an egg, and that I'd abstracted it from the kitchen one hour and twenty minutes ago. What a pity. Perhaps we could contrive a bread pudding from the remains."
"Perhaps I could mash it with milk as a salve for your offended digestion. It would make a creditable infant food."
"Humph!" Holmes sounded affronted, but then said, "Yes, what an excellent idea." He slid two scones into a bowl and poured fresh milk over them, retreating then back up the stairs with a spoon. I remained in the kitchen.
"John, if you watch me, I shall ruin dinner as well as tea," Mary said. She wiped the counter tops with a clean cloth.
"I'm sorry. I don't know how to enjoy peace and quiet, it seems."
"Why not write up stories about Holmes from your notebooks? They're marvellous, and he could hardly object. The newspapers have half the facts wrong and don't know anything of his methods. They think he is a magician. Then you could sell them to some magazine and this holiday would turn a profit."
"How mercenary," I said.
"How practical," Mary contradicted.
*
Shortly after our arrival, we received a call from Sir Walter Grey, local squire. "Is it true you have the famous Sherlock Holmes among your party?"
The man himself was secreted upstairs. "Yes, he's the reason for our presence here. He contracted an infection of the chest that required immediate removal from the London air," I said. The lie had become so natural it felt like the truth on my lips.
"Well, we'll soon have him springing from his bed! Sea-air is healthier than any other," Grey said. "Will you journey to the sea to bathe? The water cure is capital!"
"I hope so. But Holmes is suffering a great deal, and I do not like to move him yet."
"He is sure to get his rest in a village like ours. No criminals to disturb him!"
"We shall see," I said. I had my doubts. Holmes found interest in corners I would never have dreamed to inspect.
*
No more than two weeks into our retreat, I noticed a curious succession of small boys outside our front garden gate. They would turn up, look at the first floor window, sigh, and depart. After the fifth such child, I put my notebooks away and climbed the stairs to confront Holmes.
I found him sitting on the floor, un-tucked shirt billowing over his open trousers in a slovenly manner, looking at a collection of weeds tagged with small paper labels spread out on the floor. "You are in confederation with the children of the neighbourhood," I said. "What are you about?"
"Why, I have a case," Holmes said. "A trivial case, but interesting nonetheless, due to the limitations of my movement. The case itself it not the thing, you see, but rather the methods of deduction." He tried to stand, but overbalanced and fell backwards. It was the first time I had seen him both ungraceful and sober in all the years I had known him. I reached down and pulled him upright without a word.
"Anything I'd be interested in?" I asked.
"Not a bit. It's all brain work; no shooting, no ladies, and an utter lack of explosives." Holmes bent awkwardly and picked up the bunches of weed.
"Ah, so you have the children doing your investigating for you."
"Efficient, invisible, useful, and cheap. Young boys can go anywhere. I certainly did," Holmes said.
But one day later, a girl of fifteen and a boy of ten knocked on the door of the cottage, their resemblance marking them as brother and sister and their clothes marking them as a tradesman's children. "Our Sarah has a drawing for Mr. Sherlock Holmes but she's not to come near him because our mum says she has a weak chest and Mr. Sherlock is infectious," the boy said. The girl curtsied, looking a little abashed.
I took the folded paper. "Ah. Very wise, your mother. What's your name?"
"Eustace Miller and my pa is the innkeeper and our Sarah is the best artist in the county!"
The girl curtsied again.
"Well done. Ah--what does Holmes owe you?"
"Our Sarah wouldn't ask for money to such a great man when there's a criminal running around, our pa would never hear of it and we're very well off besides!" Eustace said firmly.
"I do apologize. Thank you, Miss Miller, Master Eustace. I'll see that he gets it."
Sarah curtsied for a third time and both children left. I unfolded the drawing as I took it upstairs. A wall, on a long strip of paper, showing every crack, every splash of mud, every weed.
Upstairs, I found Mary sitting with Holmes, examining a fresh set of plants. Rose branches this time. "Yes, yes, I heard, give it to me," Holmes said.
"So, tell me about the case," I said. I gave Holmes the drawing.
"It's rather interesting," Mary answered as Holmes examined the paper. "A horse was stolen, from a poor man who certainly could not afford the loss. A tragedy for his family. Mrs. Smith told me about it and I told Sherlock." Mrs. Smith was the charwoman. "Sherlock organized the local boys to find clues, and one found this bit of rose leaf in the horse's bucket, and another found a weed in the footsteps in the stable. Sherlock then had the boys collect samples of corresponding plant from the gardens in the area, and we're examining them for their similarities in growth state, parasitism, and colour."
"We know the house, and now we know the man. It is the younger Broadwood, not the elder. Look at the length of stride clearly evident in this drawing. Watson--John--give my compliments to the Millers, Miss Sarah is indeed an excellent artist. Find Squire Grey. Confronted with authority, the young man will confess. Hooker the carter will need that horse back by morning if he's to continue his rounds." Holmes sighed with contentment and took up his pipe. "I do wish I could see the resolution of the case."
"We'll be sure to tell you all about it," Mary said. She stood. "I'll just get my hat, John."
"Mary, this is no place--"
She smiled and stroked my arm, then walked past me into our room, where she donned her hat and coat. I retrieved my own hat and coat without further protest. I knew when I was defeated.
*
The conclusion of the case took place exactly as Holmes had predicted.
The younger Broadwood burst into tears. "I only wanted to marry Miss Maggie! She wouldn't have me! I thought--I thought--"
Miss Maggie Hooker stormed over. "You thought to beggar us so I'd have to come to you? I won't 'ave you because you're an idiot! And a cad! And a drunkard besides! Don't never come near me again!" She shoved Broadwood savagely, causing him to sob afresh.
Squire Grey shook hands with me. "Thank Mr. Holmes for me. Thank him kindly! To think he could work this out from his sickbed!"
"Only too happy," I said.
"You were wrong about the ladies and the explosions," I told Holmes later. "There was a lady and an explosion, both."
Mary and I were invited to dinner at the Squire's house the following Friday. Holmes stayed home with an improving book. Three weeks later, he discovered the location of a prized silver thimble from the laying pattern of the family hens; a fortnight afterwards, he began a series of experiments on the growth of the roses in the garden. I was relieved that he found so much diversion in the country.
*
There were, of course, long periods of indolence between intellectual labours. I occupied myself in rereading my notebooks, after Mary's excellent suggestion; Mary, of course, had the work of cooking and mending. Holmes would pace the house and rose garden, barred from the front garden by the increasing bulk of his body, complaining of the changes in his balance and constitution, if he could not be tempted by violin or book.
On one such morning, Holmes was thrashing on the sofa, attempting to attain relief of the aching in his back. I placed a pillow under the small of his back and another under his neck, but he did not declare himself comfortable until he was well tucked up with shawls and Gladstone snored across his knees.
Holmes rested a hand on his stomach beneath the coverings. "I can feel the child," he told me. "It turns somersaults."
"It's very small," I told him. "It has room, even in your body."
Mary opened her work-box. Within, she had the start of a set of baby-clothes. "I do wish that I could ask my mother for the family christening dress," she said. "But perhaps I can, once we return, and we could have a portrait made."
Holmes watched her sew with the concentration he normally reserved for his experiments. "Isn't that tedious?" he asked her.
"Quiet," Mary said. "Absorbing. I think of the baby with every stitch. When I sew for John, I think of him. It becomes quite pleasant, in fact."
"Extraordinary. I could never bear to learn female skills. I found no pleasure in them, rather torture."
"I cannot imagine you as a girl," Mary said.
"Wild," Holmes replied. "I was uncontrollably wild. A savage beast, according to my governess. She was not as competent as you; I scared her off the continent entirely. I was born in India, you see."
"Ah. I did wonder how you managed your transformation in secret," Mary said.
"Young Miss Holmes died in India; young Mr. Holmes arrived in England. My father was always convinced I would be murdered, so perhaps I proved him right. I ran away at every opportunity. My father called Mycroft home just to watch me and attempt to curb my spirit."
"I know very little of India, but it seems a vicious place for a child."
"Nonsense. There are thousands, millions of Indian children, and it's a perfectly fine place for them. I always hoped to blend in. I darkened my skin with dust, I bound my hair in a turban, I traded my English dresses for the clothes of a Punjabi boy, but it never worked. In his youth, Mycroft could track a mouse through a cornfield." Holmes sighed and shook his head. "I was never afraid of the unknown when the known was so terrible."
"Did they mistreat you?" Mary asked.
"Not at all; or rather, they tormented me hourly in the guise of care. My mother put me in a corset at six to train my figure," Holmes said, his mouth twisted into a ghastly sneer. "I was bound up in stockings and laces and skirts and forbidden to run or jump or shout. When I cut off my long hair, my father bought false hair, stifling and heavy as an iron helmet. Yes, I was most cruelly mistreated! A daily beating would have been preferable."
His voice was highly agitated. I leaned over and squeezed his foot in its soft slipper, the only part of him I could reach. Gladstone bestirred himself enough to lap at Holmes's hand. "Calm yourself, game-cock. You couldn't go back now if you tried."
Holmes took a deep breath. "No. Quite right. But when I think of the time wasted, it drives me to distraction."
"There are also women who chafe at such restriction," Mary said, her fingers still busy on the fine white cloth. "Suffragettes; Mrs. Bernhardt; Mrs. Nightingale; Mrs. Adler. My friend Alice who wears a bicycle costume with bloomers from morning to night."
Holmes frowned at her. "And you, Mrs. Watson, who never learned to cook, and who was not forced to work for a living, but rather chose that path; no need to confirm my conclusion, I know I am correct."
"Perhaps," she said.
"How interesting. I'm a boxer, did you know that? I suppose Watson hasn't regaled you with seedy tales of blood and gambling."
"No, though I wish he would," Mary said.
"There are female boxers as well. I would not like to go up against one. They fight in the least sportsmanlike way possible."
"This is inappropriate for the drawing room, Holmes," I said.
Holmes sat up. Gladstone grunted in protest. "Watson, if you dare tell me what is appropriate conversation one more time, I shall rip off your arm and beat you to death with it, pregnant or not." He flung himself back onto the sofa, glaring at me.
"And yet you so often need reminding," I said, not the least bit threatened by him.
"Kindly tell me as many blood-soaked stories as you like. My appetite for penny dreadfuls is my secret shame," Mary said. She smiled at us both.
*
Two months into our retreat, we received a new caller: Mrs. Irene Adler. Or perhaps it is Lady Irene, or another name entirely; much about her is obscure. I answered a knock at the door and found her in elegant travelling costume on our doorstep. "Is he dying?" she asked.
"How lovely to see you, Mrs. Adler."
"And you, Dr. Watson. I hear you have married. My congratulations."
"Thank you." I stood aside, letting her into the cottage. "He is not dying. He needed a change of air. He will recover fully, I believe."
"Is he awake? May I see him?"
"No, indeed, and I would have told you as much had you written to me first." I could not risk company who knew Holmes well.
"Of course you would. Unfortunately, I don't take no for an answer," Adler said, and she stamped her heel upon my foot with considerable force. I cried out in pain and fell back onto the sofa; thus, I was quite unable to follow her as she ran up the stairs, and was limited to limping after her and praying that Holmes was safely in bed.
He was. Adler sat on the side of Holmes's bed and held her hand to his forehead. "You barbarous woman. I should throw you out at gunpoint," I said. I wiggled my toes inside my boot to test for breakage.
"You are welcome to try," Adler said. "I worried about you," she said to Holmes.
"Yes, I'm afraid I was careless," Holmes said. With a sweeping gesture, he thrust the bed-covers back, exposing his gravid state. He sat up, holding his belly.
I may have groaned. All our efforts, come to naught by one of Holmes's caprices.
"She already knew, old man," Holmes said.
"I knew and Watson did not?" Adler looked at me with a broad grin, showing her excellent teeth.
"I could have been a great actor," Holmes said.
"This may shock you, Doctor, but I have had carnal knowledge of Holmes." She rested her hand on Holmes's thigh. Holmes raised his eyebrows and shrugged at me. "I took careful note of what was and was not present. How did this happen, you silly goose?" Adler asked, turning back to Holmes.
"I met a boxer with very poor aim." Adler laughed. Holmes continued, "Unfortunately, I was too drunk to realize he'd given me a left hook when I expected an uppercut, and now I am elephantine and unable to work."
I pressed my hand to my forehead. "You have done nothing but work since you arrived. Just because you've not dived out of any windows or broken any skulls, that doesn't mean you've been idle."
"He does not understand our guild," Holmes said to Adler.
"Oh, for heaven's sake. I'll be in the drawing room. Scream if she tries to kill you," I said, and retreated downstairs.
I retrieved my notebooks and paged through to look for a new case. With a baleful look upstairs, I decided on the curious case of the Russian noble, although with the delicacy of the case, I thought I had better make him Bohemian instead. I would not, though, change Mrs. Adler's name. I didn't believe for a minute that it was her true name and the world deserved fair warning.
But as I began to reread my notes, I heard voices echoing down the chimney that connected the drawing room to the bedroom.
"--inside you," I heard in Adler's flat American tones. "In the great detective. How I wish I had planted that seed in you. I would fuck you with my--"
That was more than enough. I blushed a livid red and hurried out into the garden.
*
Adler departed without staying for dinner. I attempted not to notice how self-satisfied Holmes appeared. It was entirely indecent.
"Holmes, I don't want her in my house again," I said after dinner. "She's dangerous."
"So am I."
"But I like you," I said. "I don't like her. I have my wife to think about, and, well." I gestured to his belly, our growing child. He was vastly expanded, unable to wear his own clothes any longer. I'd had to travel to the city to procure more voluminous shirts and trousers, which Mary had altered for him; he looked like a drawing of Humpty Dumpty in a child's story-book, or perhaps Mr. Pickwick given a full head of hair.
"Family life makes you unbearable, Watson," Holmes said. "I now prefer your wife."
"Don't bring Mary into your work!"
"She brought herself. This role of lord and master doesn't suit you. You exercise imperfect control over your chattel."
"Mary is not my chattel!" I shouted.
"Unable to master the fairer sex!"
"There is nothing fair about you!"
Holmes boxed my ear, a stinging, echoing clap. I recoiled, shocked.
"Oh," Holmes said. "And I felt so very contented. You funny little man! Do not think you can master me, order me, confine me, or insult me in that impudent way. Now leave me to my work." He rested his hands on his belly. His black eyes blazed. I found I did not know how to reply. I retreated, holding my ringing ear.
I found Mary at the top of the stair. She had heard all.
"I hardly know what happened," I said.
"Try again in the morning," she replied. "He will be less volatile then."
But I listened to Holmes's angry violin all night.
*
In the morning, in fact, Holmes seemed subdued, almost ashamed. I found I felt the same. I found the courage to speak first. "Holmes," I said. "When I spoke to you last night--"
His eyes narrowed, but he did not reply.
"It was not from--" brother to sister, I nearly said. I tried again. "It was from host to guest."
"Ah," Holmes said.
"Yes."
"Well. You were entirely within your rights, then."
"Yes, well. Bygones."
"Bygones." Sherlock turned his attention to his tea.
"I am laying you out once you deliver, though," I said.
"Mm. Take your best shot."
I managed to butter my bread before the argument bubbled up in me again. "Besides! Adler tied you naked in the hotel with the key between your legs. She could have been your undoing! I cannot imagine how you weren't exposed!"
"Constable Clark politely looked aside," Holmes said.
"And you still accept her into your home and your bed!" But I had forgotten myself; I glanced at Mary, ashamed. "Forgive me, Mary."
"She fucks like a sailor just sailed into port," Holmes said. I closed my eyes in despair.
"How? I admit I do not quite understand how male and male or female and female fit together," Mary asked, or perhaps I had fainted, and was experiencing a fever dream.
"If I tell you over breakfast, I'll make you a widow. Come, Watson!" I felt Holmes take my wrist and slap my hand vigorously.
*
I closeted myself in the drawing room all day, ignoring Holmes and Mary's tête a tête in the kitchen. I could not stop Holmes; I had come to terms with that long ago. Mary's willingness to listen, though, I was quite unprepared for.
Dinner was small and pleasant. Holmes reported that the child was sleeping quietly and praised Mary's new mastery of gravy. I related an amusing story of a patient with a wandering eye I had rediscovered in my notes. Mary resolved to tackle curry next, which pleased me but not Holmes. The child rebelled at spices.
After dinner, Holmes played for us, before complaining of fatigue and retiring early. "An excellent idea," Mary said, taking my hand.
In our bedroom, in the grey light of the half-moon, I asked her, "Are you conspiring against me with Holmes?"
"Conspiring, yes, but never against you, John." She kissed me; and then she climbed into my lap, and then--I cannot write it.
I will write that I love my wife dearly. I will write that Holmes smiled and winked insufferably for much of the following week. That is all. Too much, in fact.
Continue to part two.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Robert Downey Jr film)/Sherlock Holmes (book canon)
Word count: 17,857
Notes: Thanks to jacquez and the jack for beta.
If you trust me, continue reading. If you do not trust me (and why would you; in the past I've written parasitic mpreg, skullfucking, mouth-bleeding blow jobs, and surprise alien replacement; I wouldn't trust me, and I AM me), read the full headers, including the full title, on AOOO to see if you actually want to read this story.
*
I married Mary Morstan in January of 188-, shortly after the turning of the year. It was not a fashionable time to wed, but we had neither funds nor inclination for fashion. We moved into a tidy house in an unfashionable area, appropriate for a young physician and his wife. Consulting room and dining room on the ground floor, drawing room and bed-chamber on the first floor, maid's room and optimistic nursery on the second floor. I earned enough to provide us with a maid of all work and a part-time cook. Mary seemed happy; her parents were pleased.
I encouraged Mary to spread as many lace doilies as she saw fit. Damn Holmes anyway.
Holmes, for his part, set fire to the Baker Street lodgings. That spate of ill humour concluded, though, he accepted my marriage with no more than his usual bad grace, and merely showed up every day or two to demand entertainment; but even that declined as the weather heated and the criminal class stirred. I did, I confess, not infrequently join Holmes on his adventures.
As summer cooled into winter, Holmes retreated into his studies, declaring he would write a monograph on rail tickets or cigarette ash; indeed, during the whole month of November, I only saw him on those occasions when I called at Baker Street.
Therefore, when I opened the door to Holmes on a cold March night, it was quite ordinary. My maid had the evening off, so I performed my own necessary chores. I stood aside, waiting for him to push past me with his accustomed energy, but he did not. "Holmes? Are you all right?"
"No," he said. He doffed his hat and stepped inside while looking past me.
I shut the door behind him. "By God, man, tell me!"
"I do not know how," he said. At that, I took his elbow and ushered him up to the drawing room. If he had reached the point where he admitted to himself that he was unwell, then he was very ill indeed. He sat on the sofa and stared into the fire without once meeting my eyes. I removed his gloves and chafed his hands between mine to warm them.
Mary entered the room. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, I guessed it might be you. Is everything all right?" she asked. "You didn't take his coat, John."
"Yes," Holmes said. "The maid is not at home. That is crucial." He pulled away from me and rubbed his eyes.
"Holmes, please," I urged him.
"I find--" Holmes did not complete the sentence, but looked at Mary. "Mrs. Watson," he said.
"I'll leave you alone," Mary said, sweet woman.
"No! Far better for you to stay. If I must--you must stay, Mrs. Watson." Holmes started up, out of his seat. "I will explain."
But he did not. He stared at Mary as if lost. "Holmes," I said again.
"Yes, I have gone too far to discontinue," Holmes said, softly. He pulled his scarf from his neck and dropped it to the floor, followed by his gloves. Mary reached out her hand as he unbuttoned his coat, but Holmes turned away and faced the fire. I caught his overcoat as he dropped it.
Then, Holmes stripped out of his jacket, and before I could react, his waistcoat. He shrugged his braces from his shoulders and removed his shirt entirely. "Holmes!" I shouted, conscious of the modesty of my wife. Mary pressed her handkerchief to her mouth.
Holmes stood, bare to the waist, entirely indecent in my drawing room. Once I recovered from the shock I realized what he was showing me. His stomach was swollen grotesquely. He could not even button his trousers; once the support of the braces was absent, he had to hold his lower garments up with his hand.
"Let me see," I said. Such a large swelling, so quickly grown--for I had seen him in the boxing ring only three or four months ago--could only be a mortal affliction. "Were you injured?" It was a foolish question, but it was a doctor's question. I knelt and palpated the swelling and found it firm and regular.
"I'm neither injured nor ill, Watson."
I ignored such a preposterous statement, as I would ignore his cocaine ravings. My friend was intelligent, frighteningly so, but not always rational in the way of ordinary men. "Is there pain?" I asked him.
Holmes grabbed my hand where it rested on his stomach. "I am not ill, Watson. Listen to what I am telling you and take in all the facts, even the ones you ignore, even the ones your entire life tells you cannot be true. Use all your intellect, untainted by what you have learned. And look at me. Everything you need to know is here in front of you. I am not ill."
I looked into his eyes and saw desperation.
"Look at me for once, Watson," Holmes said.
I looked at Holmes, looked at his body. His limbs were wiry and strongly muscled, his skin pale and fine, though scarred. He bore knife scars on his ribs and chest, and white needle points along the veins of his arms. He bore no hair on his chest, though a few dark marks, not unlike a sailor's tattoo, gave that impression. His skin was brown on hands and face. He bore faint, sparse stubble on his upper lip; he was not a hairy man apart from his forearms.
His throat worked as I examined his body. I found him in good flesh, neither thin nor fat. His nipples were enlarged, I noted, concerned that could be a symptom of his abdominal disorder. There were finer, older scars hiding in the pale skin of his chest. A white line under his right nipple turned sharply and curved along the line of his ribs. There was the gunshot wound I had cleaned and sewn, healed to a jagged star. The swelling began under his stomach and extended down to the pelvis. I palpated the swelling as far as I could while leaving his trousers in place. "Holmes, we should retire to my consulting room. This is not the place."
Holmes let out an impatient breath. "Just see me, Watson!" he said. Mary gasped, suddenly, and sat down. "Your wife understands me. Can you? Please, Watson."
I shook my head. I could not imagine what he wanted me to see. I saw a man, my friend, whose body was quite familiar to me, with a terrible distortion that I could not diagnose without time and tests. I felt slight movement in his abdomen, as of gas, and guessed this might be an intestinal disorder, perhaps even cancer. His stomach was swollen much like a woman's in the middle progression of pregnancy. I remembered all I could of the anatomy of the abdomen and tried to guess what organs might be affected.
"I see why you insisted on my presence, Holmes," Mary said. She sniffed and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. "Yes, thank you. I am quite sure of my husband."
"Mary?" I looked at her, my hand still resting on Holmes's stomach.
"Oh, John," she said.
"You disappoint me terribly," Holmes said. His voice was cold. I believe he did not mean it in jest.
At that, he let his trousers fall to the floor, and I reacted perhaps not as quickly as I should have. "Holmes!" I cried. "For heaven's sake!" I pulled his trousers back up, my wife half gasping, half laughing behind my back, before I realized what I had not seen; before I realized, in fact, that Holmes was not exposing his membrum virile to my wife, for he did not have one.
Thus, when I realized at long last that my intimate friend Sherlock Holmes was not a male, I was kneeling in the most compromising of positions, my hands inside his clothing. I released him at once. His trousers fell to the floor again. My wife laughed at me. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh, John, you blind man!"
Holmes breathed heavily. I averted my face and looked at my wife instead of him. "Mary, how could I have guessed at such a thing?" I asked her.
"Yes, how indeed," Holmes said bitterly. "How can such a monster as myself exist?" I heard him pull his clothing into place.
Mary stood, all laughter gone. "Please, Sherlock, you must--" She reached out to him; he drew himself stiffly away.
"Do not, madam, imagine because I am not a male, I am necessarily a female," Holmes snapped.
"Your belly argues otherwise," she said, but did not press him further.
"You are pregnant," I said, simply to say the words aloud.
"Lacking a more suitable word, I yield to the diagnosis, Doctor Watson." Holmes picked up his shirt.
"Has the baby quickened?" Mary asked.
"Yes," I said, realizing what I had detected in his body. Not the movement of gas, but the movement of a child. I sat back on the carpet of my drawing room, my back against the sofa. "By God, Holmes! How did it happen?" I looked at him again and found I could not think of him as female. I certainly could not imagine him in a position--in a pose--in the arms of a man. Lying under a man, good God! Impossible.
"Despite your husband sharing quarters for several years with such a creature as myself, my condition has nothing to do with him, madam," Holmes told Mary. His tone was still as cold as I had ever heard from him.
"I understand fully," Mary said.
"I do not think you possibly could. Are you aware of the existence of sodomites?" Holmes asked. "Those men with an affinity for other men?"
He appeared to be asking me. "Of course," I said. I was a doctor, after all, and a soldier; I had witnessed my share of rendezvous under the Afghan moon. It was hardly the conduct of an English gentleman, but very little of soldiering was gentlemanly.
"They take me for one of their own," Holmes said. He twisted his mouth into something like a smile. "I am far more unchaste than you think me." His eyes raked over me as if I were some dog on the street. I could bear it no longer.
"Holmes, please do not blame me for my inability to guess something so far beyond everything I know!" I shouted.
"I shall blame as I like! I shall be angry as I like! I shall continue on my course!" Holmes roared in return.
I found my strength and pushed myself to my feet, carelessly bracing myself with my wounded arm. The bolt of pain only angered me further as I crossed the few steps to Holmes. "Then why come to me, if only to pity and berate me for my shocking ignorance?"
Holmes planted his feet and held his tongue, piercing my soul with his fierce dark gaze.
Mary touched my back. "Because, of course, he wishes us to take in his child and pass it as our own, John," she said. I unclenched my fists. Holmes lifted his chin.
I did not ask Holmes to confirm her deduction. In that moment, I could not bear to hear his voice. Her voice! A woman's voice, though he denied any feminine quality. My thoughts whirled around the essential pronoun.
"Again your wife out-races you. Another instance and I shall think badly of you."
"Oh, stop it! Come into my consulting room. I need to examine you." I gestured downstairs. "I assure you my wife will be present to ensure I do not take any liberties with your person."
"No, indeed. I have said all I intend to say tonight." Holmes donned his waistcoat over his loose shirt and pulled his jacket on over all. As he wrapped himself in clothing, his condition disappeared into nothing more than woollen layers. He put on overcoat and scarf and was a gentleman again. Without another word, he showed himself out.
I sat stiffly on the sofa. "Oh, Mary."
She lighted beside me and took my hand in hers. "I prefer not to feign a pregnancy," she said. "I am no liar. If we simply take the child in, we need not make excuses."
"Oh, Mary." I folded over, quite overcome, and rested my head in her lap. I did not know what to think; I thought a thousand things at once. Mostly I thought of my mad, stupid, wilful blindness. A medical man. I was a medical man.
"In fact, society will assume it is Holmes's natural child... and they will be perfectly correct," she mused, stroking my hair.
*
Sleep eluded me that night. I finally collapsed over my medical books, much as my dear (female!) friend was wont to do, as if I could absorb the information through my skin.
I resolved myself to visit Holmes alone the following morning. I walked. I needed the cold air on my face and the old ache of my shoulder to clarify my mind. I scarcely knew what etiquette demanded of the situation; I had lived with him in the greatest intimacy and never suspected that--that he was a woman? No. I could not think of Holmes as a woman, neither as a lady in a silk gown and diamonds, nor a working woman in brown stuff and bonnet, nor a fortune-telling gypsy, nor a gay girl lifting her skirt for shillings in the square. Nothing fit him.
I imagined him in Queen Victoria's crown and widow's weeds. That fit slightly better; he might don that as a disguise, or for a masquerade. I arrived at Baker Street as confused as I had begun. My former landlady answered the door with a pin loosening from her cap. Clearly Holmes was in a temper. "Mrs. Hudson," I greeted her.
"Mr. Watson," she sighed. "I'm glad to see you." She showed me inside, and I saw the cause of her alarm as I ascended the stairs. There was a broken teapot on the floor outside Holmes's room--a cheaply produced item, for Mrs. Hudson was no fool--and a brown stain down the stair. A cream cake was perched atop the bronze statue of an eagle in the hall.
I knocked. Mrs. Hudson retrieved the cream cake and retreated down the stairs. Holmes did not answer. "Holmes," I said. "Please, I must speak with you."
I waited. Holmes unlocked the door. "Come in, then," he said, in his soft, un-womanly voice. He wore his ragged dressing gown--a garment not aged, as one might think, but destroyed by contact with sulphuric acid in one of Holmes's experiments--pyjamas stolen from my wardrobe, and slippers. The distension of his abdomen was clearly visible once my eye knew what to seek.
His rooms were covered by his usual mess. A stack of letters sat on his desk; ordinarily I would peruse them, interested in his work, but this was not an ordinary visit, and I did not feel entirely welcome.
Holmes sat by the fire and stretched out his legs on the ottoman. I sat in the chair beside him, setting my hat, gloves, and cane on the floor beside the chair. "We would accept and love your child," I said.
"Yes, I know," Holmes said. He took up his tobacco pouch and filled his pipe.
"I never thought you a monster," I said. "An enigma, a contradiction, an eccentric, but never a monster."
Holmes did not respond. He looked away.
"I have so many questions! I consulted my books but they're sadly lacking." I leaned forward, but Holmes was impenetrable. He smoked without acknowledging my presence.
So I waited. I looked into the fire and breathed in the tendrils of Holmes's pipe smoke that surrounded me. Only after he finished his pipe did he speak. "There are a thousand methods to end a pregnancy. I took none of them. I told myself, tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, until last night I felt the child move, and I discovered my weakness. Now I find the process quite impossible," Holmes said.
"I am glad," I said.
"I am not." Holmes frowned. "I have no time for this nonsense. I have always striven to transcend my physical body."
"How did you do it?" I asked. "How is such a transformation possible?" I still saw Holmes's flat, manfully muscled chest in my mind's eye.
"Through effort and daring."
"Does your brother know?" His elder brother, Mycroft Holmes, was the only man in the world Sherlock acknowledged intellectually superior to himself.
"Of course. How could I hide from such a penetrating eye?"
"Please!"
Holmes smiled. "When I was born, my good parents thought I was a female, and my physique did not disprove that hypothesis. I'm informed I was a tolerably handsome girl. I had black ringlets, you see. Large eyes. Small, dainty feet." Holmes kicked off his slippers and examined his feet. They were far from dainty now, callused and scarred, the nail of the second toe of his left foot blackened and loose. "Oh, yes. Could you?" Holmes swung his foot into my lap.
"What did you kick?" I asked. I tested the nail and found it free of the bed; therefore, I ripped it away and tossed it into the fire, quenching the small spit of blood with my handkerchief.
"The kettle."
"In the battle of flesh and iron, I have discovered that flesh invariably loses," I told him. I found a plaster and iodine in a table drawer, where I had placed them during my residency in these rooms, and dressed his wound.
I looked at Holmes carefully while he refilled his pipe. His hair seemed more lustrous, I thought, and his cheeks were fuller. He was well-fleshed, if not yet plump. Holmes continued, "I was convinced, from an early age, that I would grow up to be a man. My mother told me I would become a woman and I refused to believe her. I stole my brother's clothes--"
"A lifelong affliction, then," I said. No part of my wardrobe was safe from Holmes's depredations.
Holmes sniffed. "Necessity. Both you and my brother possessed far more clothes than you ever needed, and I not nearly enough. Thank you," he said, removing his foot from my lap. "I lived in India for my first thirteen years. We had little contact with English society, yet my parents insisted that we live by English rules, no matter how stifling and ridiculous we found them. When I was eight, my mother died, and at thirteen, my father followed her. My brother was twenty-one and assumed my guardianship. He was well aware of my--" Holmes stopped here and waved his hand.
"Convictions?" I asked.
"My deformity. The error in my makeup. Mycroft believed me when I told him I was male in every other regard. And so, on the boat from Bombay to London, we booked passage as two brothers, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes learned to be a boy. I gave up my black ringlets with relish."
"What name did you receive at your christening?"
"I cannot recall," Holmes said.
"Monstrous lies."
"Then I do not wish to recall."
"So you learned the art of observation... by learning to be male?" I asked.
Holmes inclined his head. "I knew how to be a child, free and wild. I had been given the instructions for womanhood by my mother. I learned the rules of manhood on my own. Some are exceedingly odd, my dear fellow."
"But your body? You cannot tell me you can change that through will alone."
"Oh yes, my body." Holmes sneered. "Short stature I could not alter. But the trappings of girlhood, that daintiness and delicacy men like you so prize--"
"That is not what I see in Mary," I objected.
"And yet she is dainty, and pretty, and light. Those qualities are easily altered through physical activity. Sun browned and coarsened my skin. As I developed my musculature through fighting, running, and riding, I lost any girlish softness."
"I examined you, Holmes. You have done much more."
"I have," Holmes said.
"But how?"
"How what?"
"How did you do it?"
"Do what?"
"What did you do to your bosom?" I nearly shouted.
Holmes smiled in triumph at my outburst and answered: "A topical application of a cocaine derivative and an excellent set of knives."
I recoiled. "You--"
"Cut myself open and remade my body. More than once, in fact. I did not remove all the tissue in my first attempt. As for the rest, a solution of bull's testicles, regularly administered, has had an acceptable masculinising effect. I cannot copy your luxuriant moustache, but neither do I draw stares. Not for that. I appear to be what I am: A healthy, unfettered, vigorous--"
"Short," I said.
Holmes paused, his mouth open. "--man in the prime of life. You have recovered from your shock, I see."
"I shall never recover from this shock. I have decided to brush the dust from my boots and continue as a changed man."
He re-lit his pipe and blew a smoke ring in a thoughtful manner. "I thought you would discover me," Holmes said. "Surely, I thought, in such close quarters, I would make some error, betray myself in some way."
"Your eccentricities are so legion that I did not think to question the essential matter of your sex," I said. "I once stood in the room speaking to you as you were bathing and never saw. Nothing seemed amiss. I had no reason to peer beneath the water like Ahab looking for the whale."
"You would make a better detective if you were less polite."
"You're a marvel, Holmes. But you are showing," I said, looking down at his stomach. "In a matter of a fortnight or two, your condition will no longer be concealable. What do you plan?"
"To stay in my rooms until the entire ghastly business has concluded." Holmes struck his belly with his thumb.
"Mrs. Hudson is not so blind. I assure you, you will be found out. No, I believe I have a plan. Lie down before the fire."
Holmes raised his eyebrows but obeyed. I looked around for water, tea, some sort of liquid; I discovered a vase containing a wilted opium poppy and cast the flower aside, using the water to bedeck Holmes's brow with dew. I then pinched blood into his cheeks. "There. Now you look feverish. Attempt listlessness."
"I see," Holmes said. He closed his eyes and languished on the carpet.
I crossed to the door and opened it. "Mrs. Hudson? Holmes is unwell! Please call a carriage."
*
Holmes maintained an excellent impression of a febrile faint during the coach ride and all the way up the stairs to the nursery. We kept an extra bed there--and the old crib Mary's mother had saved for us, for we were hopeful, ever hopeful.
Holmes glared at me. Before the fire, Gladstone snored loudly.
"Are you ever going to speak to me again?" I asked. I set a nightcap on his head and tucked his unruly hair under the brim. Ringlets, indeed.
Mary smiled and poured Holmes a cup of tea. "Sugar?" she asked.
"He takes it very sweet," I said.
"I! Am not! Ill!" Holmes roared.
"Well done. You're playing your part perfectly. Now, I'll take a house by the sea. Bournemouth is lovely this time of year. Sea air will cure your debilitating chest infection in, at an estimate, four months."
Mary handed him the tea. "I will go mad," Holmes said.
"You've gone months without a case before. Mrs. Hudson will forward your letters. Perhaps you'll discover a new hobby."
"Hobby!" Holmes spat back. "Prison!"
"I can teach you to knit, embroider, paint, and play the piano. I am also qualified in botany, history, grammar, and use of the globes," Mary said.
"Excellent, Mary. Holmes is well up in geography but sadly deficient in knowledge of the heavens."
Holmes thrust himself back against the pillows and covered his eyes with his arm. "Torturers," he breathed.
*
We moved quickly, from necessity. I did not know how long Holmes could remain concealed in the nursery, whether from the necessary activities of our maid or his own restless peregrination. Mary packed our clothes and I packed my study, paying particular attention to volumes concerning gestation, parturition and the complications thereof. Mary arranged for the maid to stay at the London house and keep it aired. I might, after all, need to return to London to see a patient. A four-month holiday in the country would be a strain on our finances, but I felt no compunction in drawing upon Holmes's. I was thoroughly aware of his current state of affluence.
I then travelled to Baker Street to pack his clothes and essentials, and advance Mrs. Hudson the rent. Mary called on her friends to let them know she would be leaving town. These chores complete, we were prepared to leave for Bournemouth in the morning. I tapped on the guest bedroom door. "No entry!" Holmes cried.
"This is my house," I said, opening the door. I found Holmes sitting before the fire, dressed as I had left him in pyjamas and nightcap, but pressing a handkerchief to his eyes. "Oh," I said. I closed the door behind me.
"I am not distressed. My body has turned against me in the most ridiculous of ways." Holmes sniffed, angrily, and started up from the chair. He blew his nose. "Three months ago I desired oranges with a passion that overwhelmed me. Last month I could not eat a meal without fish. I have not been able to tolerate alcohol since this miserable condition began. Now I weep without cause. Four months, Watson? I cannot stand four minutes!" Holmes cast the handkerchief into the fire, or tried to. It fluttered limply onto the hearth.
"My dear Holmes," I said. I walked the few paces to his side and took his arm in mine.
Holmes gripped my hand. "But now that I have resolved to carry on, I must exercise patience and nurture the child well."
"You're a man of great will."
"I am not a man," Holmes said, looking at me under his lashes.
"Are you doing this to torment me? You tell me you are a man, then not a man, then a man again, and now no longer a man? Please, enlighten me, so that I know how to act!"
"Act as if I am your friend."
"Whether you are my female friend or my male friend makes a considerable difference."
Holmes scoffed. "Etiquette. Do you know that in India, there is a third sex called hijra? They begin life as boys and dedicate themselves to the goddess Bahuchara Mata by cutting off their sexual organs. The Queen, in her wisdom, has outlawed their practices as indecent."
"I'll thank you not to insult the Queen under my roof," I said.
"I did not insult the Queen. I mentioned her wisdom."
"There was a tone, Holmes."
"I heartily apologize." He scrubbed his face with the sleeve of his pyjamas. "My brother told me of the third sex after my own transformation. I was utterly ignorant as a girl. Told nothing, hidden from everything. I had everything to learn. I stuffed my memory full at random before I learned to--ah, Watson, I'm rambling."
"Please, I wish to understand."
"I am without focus. My mind feels soft and swollen. I'm terribly hungry. You dine at seven; what time is it?"
"Six-thirty. I'll bring up a tray."
"A third sex, and I am a fourth. Perhaps there are more. Clear your mind of preconception, Watson!" Holmes called after me as I fled the room.
*
I watched Mary undress for bed. Her long hair spilled over her white shoulders like honey. She released the busk of her corset and sighed with relief, breathing deeply as she hung the corset from the hook beside her petticoats. "Why do you wear stays?" I asked her.
Mary turned and smiled. She has a crooked smile, made uneven by her crooked teeth, but it is all the more beautiful for its unpractised, natural qualities. "Because I wish to look as well as I can," she said.
"But we're married now. You have ensnared me with your beauty. You are quite free to join the Rational Dress Society," I said.
Mary stepped up to the bed and took my head in her hands. "I can see when Holmes possesses you. I believe your hair turns darker. I wish to look well, just as you wish to look well, and we both wish our house to look well, so that we keep a respectable appearance and you continue to earn money as a physician. How many of your patients would come to a house run by a woman in trousers and headed by a Bohemian?" She kissed my forehead.
"Ah yes. We ordinary people do not have the freedom of Holmes."
"Holmes created his own path."
I took her hands in mine. "You must tell me if this is too difficult for you. I feel as though no man has ever asked so much of his wife."
"John!" she laughed. "Don't be absurd. I am prepared to bear your children; surely I can help your friend bear his."
"I intended to offer you a respectable home, not scandal and subterfuge."
"In fact you offered me fistfights, black magic, and Holmes in a false beard. I still accepted. Deduce me," she said. "What is my attitude toward a little adventure?"
"Mary, you angel," I said.
"No angel. A mortal woman, through and through."
*
In the morning I carried Holmes to the coach as I had carried him down the stairs from his rooms. He flopped limply in my arms, playing illness better than a stage actor. I had to lift Gladstone into the coach as well. The dog was nearly as lazy as Holmes.
I treated him exactly as if he were one of my pneumonia patients. I tucked warm rugs around him and checked his pulse. The disgusted looks he gave me were entirely un-needed, I thought.
"I'm hungry," Holmes said. "I must have food immediately."
"We had breakfast not an hour ago and the train station is twenty minutes away," I told him.
"There is a living creature inside me and it demands sustenance!"
Mary snapped open her large travelling bag and withdrew a small parcel wrapped in paper. "I have had some experience of women in a delicate condition," she said, handing the parcel to Holmes.
"I am in no sense a woman," Holmes growled, but he took the parcel, which proved to be a pie.
"But all those with child I have previously known have been women," Mary said. "My statement was precise and accurate."
Holmes eyed her askance, eating the pie.
Mary continued, "I have so desired to know you better, Mr. Holmes. What a chance this shall be!"
"I did not desire to know you at all."
"Holmes!" I cried. "If you cannot be polite to my wife I will leave you by the side of the road like the sack of old clothes you resemble!"
Holmes choked on the pie. He laughed, lips closed, hand clapped over his mouth.
"I understand. Emotions run high when you're in this state." Mary leaned forward and patted his knee.
Holmes coughed and glared at us both. Gladstone pillowed his head on Holmes's shoe.
Once we transferred to the train, Holmes fixed Mary with a calculating gaze. "Holmes," I said.
"Yes?"
"Don't."
"I believe Mrs. Watson is entirely capable of defending herself from the feeble attack of an invalid," Holmes said.
"He has already accused me of a mercenary interest in your purse. Can he do worse and yet remain truthful?" Mary asked.
I took her hand. "Please, Mary, for the love of God and all the angels, do not challenge him, for he will take up the glove despite your sex."
"As he should. I am not afraid."
I resigned myself to disaster. I kissed Mary's hand, only praying that divorce would not ensue. Holmes, wrapped up well and stroking Gladstone's head absently, regarded us both.
"You have been married for a year," Holmes said at length. "You are clearly physically enamoured--"
"Holmes! Some decency!"
"Decency, of course. How thoughtless of me to mention copulation to a married woman."
"Holmes--" Was this, then, why Holmes disdained the company of women? Was he so wholly incapable of curbing his tongue?
"I never dreamed you were so sensitive, old man. You blush like a convent girl. Your wife is not nearly as retiring." Holmes kicked my foot. "I exposed myself to you, body and soul, and you baulk now?"
"My husband and I couple every other day," Mary said.
"Mary!"
"He would deduce it if I did not own it," Mary said. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, our marriage is a success in this regard."
"You fear you are barren," Holmes said.
"Yes." Mary sounded quite calm.
"You were delighted at my exposure, not as disturbed as you should have been. Yes, I should have seen this before. You will overlook my scandalous nature because you want a child so very much, and the nearest thing to Watson's child is mine. Perhaps even superior."
"No, you are wrong in that last," Mary said.
"But not in the rest."
"Not at all. But I am afraid, Mr. Holmes, that John's child would be far handsomer than yours; also cheerfuller. But I am content with a plain, morose infant if the alternative is no infant at all."
"Handsomer?" Holmes's hand clenched on Gladstone's ear. Gladstone emitted a muffled grunt.
"Far handsomer," Mary said, squeezing my hand.
"His hair is nearly red!"
"His features are regular and his teeth are excellent. He is tall and manly. Then, of course, there is his fine moustache. My husband is several grades handsomer than yourself, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes's nostrils flared and he threw himself back into the seat. I realized, to my very great amazement, that Mary had won.
I loved her more than ever.
*
The remainder of our journey was very pleasant, though Holmes spoke Latin in his sleep.
I took a cottage in the village of D--, near Bournemouth, with a high garden wall so that my friend could take his exercise unseen. Directly upon arriving, he decided to polish his skills at fencing. When I reminded him that he was an invalid, and that his cries and whoops carried across the countryside, he gagged himself with his scarf.
I retreated to the kitchen, where Mary was preparing dinner with the help of Mrs. Beeton's vast Book and Gladstone was stretched out beside the stove, oblivious and content. Mary was a novice in the craft of cooking; she had been a governess, after all, and that was not among her duties. We did not feel we could risk a maidservant in this country house and hired a charwoman from the village instead.
"He seems more animated," Mary said.
I kissed her. "I see that dinner is this handsome fowl."
"Yes. I'm boiling it; the method seems simple and quick. I quite fear Sherlock's stomach if I'm wrong."
The layout of the cottage was thus: On the ground floor, a dining-parlour to the left of the front door and the drawing room to the right. Behind, the kitchen and servant's bedchamber. On the first floor, the largest bedchamber sat to the right, over the drawing room, while the bedroom to the left was constricted by the linen closet. With some regret, Mary and I took the smaller room. Holmes would chafe enough at his confinement without my attempting to place him in a small room. A chimney rose from each front room to the corresponding bedroom above, with the kitchen chimney providing additional heat to the larger bedroom. The kitchen communicated to the back garden through a simple door sheltered by a large overhang. The back garden contained the outdoor water closet, shed, and abundant rose garden. The cottage lacked plumbing entirely, water being provided by a well. The furniture was at least ten years old, but well enough made to admit no complaint from our party.
After he tired himself fencing, Holmes tested the water with his microscope, having insisted that we bring as much of his apparatus as possible. "Ah," he said. "Quite safe. I see no sign of Salmonella, and the cesspit seems well constructed." He took a drink, rolling it around his mouth with great care. "No excessive metals or other contaminants. Well done, old man, you haven't poisoned us."
"Bravo! Health and long life!" Mary cried from the kitchen.
I stood in the parlour door, incredulous. "Are the pair of you colluding to laugh at my expense? Joining together like a gang of common criminals?"
"Please, Watson, were I a criminal, I would be a very un-common one." Holmes tossed back the water and pushed past me into the kitchen. "Dear Mrs. Watson, please do not reduce me to gnawing on calf-skin volumes for my nourishment."
"There's bread and butter. Dinner will be ready when it's ready."
Holmes glanced into the pot. "Fourteen minutes," he said. I heard rattling and entered fully into the kitchen to rescue the stock from Holmes's attention. "Where is the bread knife?" Holmes asked, looking into the cupboard.
"It's by the bread," I said. I cut him a slice. The landlord had provided us with a small but entirely satisfactory supply of foodstuffs. We would receive deliveries of food from the local merchants. We had everything we needed here, so that we could stay in perfect seclusion.
Holmes grunted. "My brain is failing me. I blame the child. I shall be an imbecile by the time I deliver." He snatched the bread from my hand and spread it heavily with butter.
"You'll recover," Mary said.
*
I posted a notice of my availability for medical consultation, but as there was a physician in residence of long standing and rather cheaper rates than I, as a Londoner, could offer, I soon found myself utterly without occupation. I began to feel some share of the restlessness which daily so overwhelmed my friend. I became engrossed for a time in Mary's ongoing culinary education. She, however, found Holmes more useful.
"Sherlock!" Mary cried one morning. On the counter beside the oven was a brown and rock-hard pan of scones. "Come tell me what I did wrong!" I was startled to hear her cry so loud. At home, she was soft and low of tone.
Holmes bounded down the stairs two at a time. "Oh! Currants, Mrs. Watson. A shocking waste of currants!" He prodded the stony pastries like they were specimens for dissection.
"Tell me what I did."
"The egg. Six eggs arrived this morning, four were consumed during breakfast. Two each for you and your good husband, none for me due to this damnable child." Holmes twisted his mouth. He had eaten a fried egg the previous day and had only just exited the kitchen door before purging it from his stomach. He continued, "After the interruption of the butcher boy, you resumed your labours, saw the single egg remaining in the rack, and thought you had used the other in the batter. You did not know that I had particular need of the albumen of an egg, and that I'd abstracted it from the kitchen one hour and twenty minutes ago. What a pity. Perhaps we could contrive a bread pudding from the remains."
"Perhaps I could mash it with milk as a salve for your offended digestion. It would make a creditable infant food."
"Humph!" Holmes sounded affronted, but then said, "Yes, what an excellent idea." He slid two scones into a bowl and poured fresh milk over them, retreating then back up the stairs with a spoon. I remained in the kitchen.
"John, if you watch me, I shall ruin dinner as well as tea," Mary said. She wiped the counter tops with a clean cloth.
"I'm sorry. I don't know how to enjoy peace and quiet, it seems."
"Why not write up stories about Holmes from your notebooks? They're marvellous, and he could hardly object. The newspapers have half the facts wrong and don't know anything of his methods. They think he is a magician. Then you could sell them to some magazine and this holiday would turn a profit."
"How mercenary," I said.
"How practical," Mary contradicted.
*
Shortly after our arrival, we received a call from Sir Walter Grey, local squire. "Is it true you have the famous Sherlock Holmes among your party?"
The man himself was secreted upstairs. "Yes, he's the reason for our presence here. He contracted an infection of the chest that required immediate removal from the London air," I said. The lie had become so natural it felt like the truth on my lips.
"Well, we'll soon have him springing from his bed! Sea-air is healthier than any other," Grey said. "Will you journey to the sea to bathe? The water cure is capital!"
"I hope so. But Holmes is suffering a great deal, and I do not like to move him yet."
"He is sure to get his rest in a village like ours. No criminals to disturb him!"
"We shall see," I said. I had my doubts. Holmes found interest in corners I would never have dreamed to inspect.
*
No more than two weeks into our retreat, I noticed a curious succession of small boys outside our front garden gate. They would turn up, look at the first floor window, sigh, and depart. After the fifth such child, I put my notebooks away and climbed the stairs to confront Holmes.
I found him sitting on the floor, un-tucked shirt billowing over his open trousers in a slovenly manner, looking at a collection of weeds tagged with small paper labels spread out on the floor. "You are in confederation with the children of the neighbourhood," I said. "What are you about?"
"Why, I have a case," Holmes said. "A trivial case, but interesting nonetheless, due to the limitations of my movement. The case itself it not the thing, you see, but rather the methods of deduction." He tried to stand, but overbalanced and fell backwards. It was the first time I had seen him both ungraceful and sober in all the years I had known him. I reached down and pulled him upright without a word.
"Anything I'd be interested in?" I asked.
"Not a bit. It's all brain work; no shooting, no ladies, and an utter lack of explosives." Holmes bent awkwardly and picked up the bunches of weed.
"Ah, so you have the children doing your investigating for you."
"Efficient, invisible, useful, and cheap. Young boys can go anywhere. I certainly did," Holmes said.
But one day later, a girl of fifteen and a boy of ten knocked on the door of the cottage, their resemblance marking them as brother and sister and their clothes marking them as a tradesman's children. "Our Sarah has a drawing for Mr. Sherlock Holmes but she's not to come near him because our mum says she has a weak chest and Mr. Sherlock is infectious," the boy said. The girl curtsied, looking a little abashed.
I took the folded paper. "Ah. Very wise, your mother. What's your name?"
"Eustace Miller and my pa is the innkeeper and our Sarah is the best artist in the county!"
The girl curtsied again.
"Well done. Ah--what does Holmes owe you?"
"Our Sarah wouldn't ask for money to such a great man when there's a criminal running around, our pa would never hear of it and we're very well off besides!" Eustace said firmly.
"I do apologize. Thank you, Miss Miller, Master Eustace. I'll see that he gets it."
Sarah curtsied for a third time and both children left. I unfolded the drawing as I took it upstairs. A wall, on a long strip of paper, showing every crack, every splash of mud, every weed.
Upstairs, I found Mary sitting with Holmes, examining a fresh set of plants. Rose branches this time. "Yes, yes, I heard, give it to me," Holmes said.
"So, tell me about the case," I said. I gave Holmes the drawing.
"It's rather interesting," Mary answered as Holmes examined the paper. "A horse was stolen, from a poor man who certainly could not afford the loss. A tragedy for his family. Mrs. Smith told me about it and I told Sherlock." Mrs. Smith was the charwoman. "Sherlock organized the local boys to find clues, and one found this bit of rose leaf in the horse's bucket, and another found a weed in the footsteps in the stable. Sherlock then had the boys collect samples of corresponding plant from the gardens in the area, and we're examining them for their similarities in growth state, parasitism, and colour."
"We know the house, and now we know the man. It is the younger Broadwood, not the elder. Look at the length of stride clearly evident in this drawing. Watson--John--give my compliments to the Millers, Miss Sarah is indeed an excellent artist. Find Squire Grey. Confronted with authority, the young man will confess. Hooker the carter will need that horse back by morning if he's to continue his rounds." Holmes sighed with contentment and took up his pipe. "I do wish I could see the resolution of the case."
"We'll be sure to tell you all about it," Mary said. She stood. "I'll just get my hat, John."
"Mary, this is no place--"
She smiled and stroked my arm, then walked past me into our room, where she donned her hat and coat. I retrieved my own hat and coat without further protest. I knew when I was defeated.
*
The conclusion of the case took place exactly as Holmes had predicted.
The younger Broadwood burst into tears. "I only wanted to marry Miss Maggie! She wouldn't have me! I thought--I thought--"
Miss Maggie Hooker stormed over. "You thought to beggar us so I'd have to come to you? I won't 'ave you because you're an idiot! And a cad! And a drunkard besides! Don't never come near me again!" She shoved Broadwood savagely, causing him to sob afresh.
Squire Grey shook hands with me. "Thank Mr. Holmes for me. Thank him kindly! To think he could work this out from his sickbed!"
"Only too happy," I said.
"You were wrong about the ladies and the explosions," I told Holmes later. "There was a lady and an explosion, both."
Mary and I were invited to dinner at the Squire's house the following Friday. Holmes stayed home with an improving book. Three weeks later, he discovered the location of a prized silver thimble from the laying pattern of the family hens; a fortnight afterwards, he began a series of experiments on the growth of the roses in the garden. I was relieved that he found so much diversion in the country.
*
There were, of course, long periods of indolence between intellectual labours. I occupied myself in rereading my notebooks, after Mary's excellent suggestion; Mary, of course, had the work of cooking and mending. Holmes would pace the house and rose garden, barred from the front garden by the increasing bulk of his body, complaining of the changes in his balance and constitution, if he could not be tempted by violin or book.
On one such morning, Holmes was thrashing on the sofa, attempting to attain relief of the aching in his back. I placed a pillow under the small of his back and another under his neck, but he did not declare himself comfortable until he was well tucked up with shawls and Gladstone snored across his knees.
Holmes rested a hand on his stomach beneath the coverings. "I can feel the child," he told me. "It turns somersaults."
"It's very small," I told him. "It has room, even in your body."
Mary opened her work-box. Within, she had the start of a set of baby-clothes. "I do wish that I could ask my mother for the family christening dress," she said. "But perhaps I can, once we return, and we could have a portrait made."
Holmes watched her sew with the concentration he normally reserved for his experiments. "Isn't that tedious?" he asked her.
"Quiet," Mary said. "Absorbing. I think of the baby with every stitch. When I sew for John, I think of him. It becomes quite pleasant, in fact."
"Extraordinary. I could never bear to learn female skills. I found no pleasure in them, rather torture."
"I cannot imagine you as a girl," Mary said.
"Wild," Holmes replied. "I was uncontrollably wild. A savage beast, according to my governess. She was not as competent as you; I scared her off the continent entirely. I was born in India, you see."
"Ah. I did wonder how you managed your transformation in secret," Mary said.
"Young Miss Holmes died in India; young Mr. Holmes arrived in England. My father was always convinced I would be murdered, so perhaps I proved him right. I ran away at every opportunity. My father called Mycroft home just to watch me and attempt to curb my spirit."
"I know very little of India, but it seems a vicious place for a child."
"Nonsense. There are thousands, millions of Indian children, and it's a perfectly fine place for them. I always hoped to blend in. I darkened my skin with dust, I bound my hair in a turban, I traded my English dresses for the clothes of a Punjabi boy, but it never worked. In his youth, Mycroft could track a mouse through a cornfield." Holmes sighed and shook his head. "I was never afraid of the unknown when the known was so terrible."
"Did they mistreat you?" Mary asked.
"Not at all; or rather, they tormented me hourly in the guise of care. My mother put me in a corset at six to train my figure," Holmes said, his mouth twisted into a ghastly sneer. "I was bound up in stockings and laces and skirts and forbidden to run or jump or shout. When I cut off my long hair, my father bought false hair, stifling and heavy as an iron helmet. Yes, I was most cruelly mistreated! A daily beating would have been preferable."
His voice was highly agitated. I leaned over and squeezed his foot in its soft slipper, the only part of him I could reach. Gladstone bestirred himself enough to lap at Holmes's hand. "Calm yourself, game-cock. You couldn't go back now if you tried."
Holmes took a deep breath. "No. Quite right. But when I think of the time wasted, it drives me to distraction."
"There are also women who chafe at such restriction," Mary said, her fingers still busy on the fine white cloth. "Suffragettes; Mrs. Bernhardt; Mrs. Nightingale; Mrs. Adler. My friend Alice who wears a bicycle costume with bloomers from morning to night."
Holmes frowned at her. "And you, Mrs. Watson, who never learned to cook, and who was not forced to work for a living, but rather chose that path; no need to confirm my conclusion, I know I am correct."
"Perhaps," she said.
"How interesting. I'm a boxer, did you know that? I suppose Watson hasn't regaled you with seedy tales of blood and gambling."
"No, though I wish he would," Mary said.
"There are female boxers as well. I would not like to go up against one. They fight in the least sportsmanlike way possible."
"This is inappropriate for the drawing room, Holmes," I said.
Holmes sat up. Gladstone grunted in protest. "Watson, if you dare tell me what is appropriate conversation one more time, I shall rip off your arm and beat you to death with it, pregnant or not." He flung himself back onto the sofa, glaring at me.
"And yet you so often need reminding," I said, not the least bit threatened by him.
"Kindly tell me as many blood-soaked stories as you like. My appetite for penny dreadfuls is my secret shame," Mary said. She smiled at us both.
*
Two months into our retreat, we received a new caller: Mrs. Irene Adler. Or perhaps it is Lady Irene, or another name entirely; much about her is obscure. I answered a knock at the door and found her in elegant travelling costume on our doorstep. "Is he dying?" she asked.
"How lovely to see you, Mrs. Adler."
"And you, Dr. Watson. I hear you have married. My congratulations."
"Thank you." I stood aside, letting her into the cottage. "He is not dying. He needed a change of air. He will recover fully, I believe."
"Is he awake? May I see him?"
"No, indeed, and I would have told you as much had you written to me first." I could not risk company who knew Holmes well.
"Of course you would. Unfortunately, I don't take no for an answer," Adler said, and she stamped her heel upon my foot with considerable force. I cried out in pain and fell back onto the sofa; thus, I was quite unable to follow her as she ran up the stairs, and was limited to limping after her and praying that Holmes was safely in bed.
He was. Adler sat on the side of Holmes's bed and held her hand to his forehead. "You barbarous woman. I should throw you out at gunpoint," I said. I wiggled my toes inside my boot to test for breakage.
"You are welcome to try," Adler said. "I worried about you," she said to Holmes.
"Yes, I'm afraid I was careless," Holmes said. With a sweeping gesture, he thrust the bed-covers back, exposing his gravid state. He sat up, holding his belly.
I may have groaned. All our efforts, come to naught by one of Holmes's caprices.
"She already knew, old man," Holmes said.
"I knew and Watson did not?" Adler looked at me with a broad grin, showing her excellent teeth.
"I could have been a great actor," Holmes said.
"This may shock you, Doctor, but I have had carnal knowledge of Holmes." She rested her hand on Holmes's thigh. Holmes raised his eyebrows and shrugged at me. "I took careful note of what was and was not present. How did this happen, you silly goose?" Adler asked, turning back to Holmes.
"I met a boxer with very poor aim." Adler laughed. Holmes continued, "Unfortunately, I was too drunk to realize he'd given me a left hook when I expected an uppercut, and now I am elephantine and unable to work."
I pressed my hand to my forehead. "You have done nothing but work since you arrived. Just because you've not dived out of any windows or broken any skulls, that doesn't mean you've been idle."
"He does not understand our guild," Holmes said to Adler.
"Oh, for heaven's sake. I'll be in the drawing room. Scream if she tries to kill you," I said, and retreated downstairs.
I retrieved my notebooks and paged through to look for a new case. With a baleful look upstairs, I decided on the curious case of the Russian noble, although with the delicacy of the case, I thought I had better make him Bohemian instead. I would not, though, change Mrs. Adler's name. I didn't believe for a minute that it was her true name and the world deserved fair warning.
But as I began to reread my notes, I heard voices echoing down the chimney that connected the drawing room to the bedroom.
"--inside you," I heard in Adler's flat American tones. "In the great detective. How I wish I had planted that seed in you. I would fuck you with my--"
That was more than enough. I blushed a livid red and hurried out into the garden.
*
Adler departed without staying for dinner. I attempted not to notice how self-satisfied Holmes appeared. It was entirely indecent.
"Holmes, I don't want her in my house again," I said after dinner. "She's dangerous."
"So am I."
"But I like you," I said. "I don't like her. I have my wife to think about, and, well." I gestured to his belly, our growing child. He was vastly expanded, unable to wear his own clothes any longer. I'd had to travel to the city to procure more voluminous shirts and trousers, which Mary had altered for him; he looked like a drawing of Humpty Dumpty in a child's story-book, or perhaps Mr. Pickwick given a full head of hair.
"Family life makes you unbearable, Watson," Holmes said. "I now prefer your wife."
"Don't bring Mary into your work!"
"She brought herself. This role of lord and master doesn't suit you. You exercise imperfect control over your chattel."
"Mary is not my chattel!" I shouted.
"Unable to master the fairer sex!"
"There is nothing fair about you!"
Holmes boxed my ear, a stinging, echoing clap. I recoiled, shocked.
"Oh," Holmes said. "And I felt so very contented. You funny little man! Do not think you can master me, order me, confine me, or insult me in that impudent way. Now leave me to my work." He rested his hands on his belly. His black eyes blazed. I found I did not know how to reply. I retreated, holding my ringing ear.
I found Mary at the top of the stair. She had heard all.
"I hardly know what happened," I said.
"Try again in the morning," she replied. "He will be less volatile then."
But I listened to Holmes's angry violin all night.
*
In the morning, in fact, Holmes seemed subdued, almost ashamed. I found I felt the same. I found the courage to speak first. "Holmes," I said. "When I spoke to you last night--"
His eyes narrowed, but he did not reply.
"It was not from--" brother to sister, I nearly said. I tried again. "It was from host to guest."
"Ah," Holmes said.
"Yes."
"Well. You were entirely within your rights, then."
"Yes, well. Bygones."
"Bygones." Sherlock turned his attention to his tea.
"I am laying you out once you deliver, though," I said.
"Mm. Take your best shot."
I managed to butter my bread before the argument bubbled up in me again. "Besides! Adler tied you naked in the hotel with the key between your legs. She could have been your undoing! I cannot imagine how you weren't exposed!"
"Constable Clark politely looked aside," Holmes said.
"And you still accept her into your home and your bed!" But I had forgotten myself; I glanced at Mary, ashamed. "Forgive me, Mary."
"She fucks like a sailor just sailed into port," Holmes said. I closed my eyes in despair.
"How? I admit I do not quite understand how male and male or female and female fit together," Mary asked, or perhaps I had fainted, and was experiencing a fever dream.
"If I tell you over breakfast, I'll make you a widow. Come, Watson!" I felt Holmes take my wrist and slap my hand vigorously.
*
I closeted myself in the drawing room all day, ignoring Holmes and Mary's tête a tête in the kitchen. I could not stop Holmes; I had come to terms with that long ago. Mary's willingness to listen, though, I was quite unprepared for.
Dinner was small and pleasant. Holmes reported that the child was sleeping quietly and praised Mary's new mastery of gravy. I related an amusing story of a patient with a wandering eye I had rediscovered in my notes. Mary resolved to tackle curry next, which pleased me but not Holmes. The child rebelled at spices.
After dinner, Holmes played for us, before complaining of fatigue and retiring early. "An excellent idea," Mary said, taking my hand.
In our bedroom, in the grey light of the half-moon, I asked her, "Are you conspiring against me with Holmes?"
"Conspiring, yes, but never against you, John." She kissed me; and then she climbed into my lap, and then--I cannot write it.
I will write that I love my wife dearly. I will write that Holmes smiled and winked insufferably for much of the following week. That is all. Too much, in fact.
Continue to part two.