20 Dear Mary (1)

Dear Mary,

Holmes is many things, but a helpmate or a confidant he is not. So I can only hope your spirit rests easy and you do not resent that I still turn to you for support even after death. After I lost you, I lived in a kind of a void, one I hoped to fill when Holmes came back from the grave. Strange how deluded I was, having fled from him to you, I fled back. Still looking for that bond, that true bond to which I have often found pieces but have never seen the whole mosaic. That became clearer to me tonight.

In the wake of the arrest of Colonel Moran, Holmes was like a toy winding down. He limped up the stairs ahead of me with uneven steps. He had paused first to order Mrs. Hudson to heat water for a bath, and now he dragged out the old hip-bath. Although we had gas light in the lower rooms, Holmes had not seen fit to invest in many more of the modern amenities available to the wealthy so that the hot water would be born up in buckets. I was surprised by his actions, having expected that he would go straight to his bed.

I went up to my room. Part of me would have preferred to stay. Holmes had a pleasant form, lean and well proportioned. He was a little hard worn after his years in self-imposed exile to be sure, but nothing that could not now be put to rights. You, who was so tolerant with what you called my 'Greek' tastes, are one of the few I could confide that to. That openness which saved you from feeling jealousy towards Holmes, although the reverse was most certainly not true.

It was many hours later that I felt I had thought about Holmes rather too much, and I grew restless. I went down the stairs and stepped into the living room to collect my hat, thinking I might take a walk. I assumed that Holmes would have finally been driven to his rest, and felt in fact that he might not emerge from his bed for some time. He was, however, draped across the sofa, which he had drawn around to face the fire. He had been asleep, I think, and was only slightly awake now. Merely tilting his head to survey me.

I, for my part, noticed only one thing. Holmes barefoot was propped up on the arm of the sofa, and a few distinct punctures were apparent upon the ankle. The implication was clear.

"I thought you had given that up," I said.

"Of course. That is what wished you to believe." He spoke with some amusement and no small trace of contempt.

I paused, thinking of the long charade during the early years. Do you remember Mary how perfect those days were? You were setting up a household, and I was going back into practice. I had never spent much time in civilian practice, and somehow helping Holmes overcome his dependence had helped to build my confidence – but apparently, it had done very little else, and on false pretenses at that....

I stood wordless, with a frozen face while Holmes looked at me quizzically.

"I dare say I could give it up again," he said conciliatorily.

"Or seem to," I replied somewhat coolly, and I took my walk.

It did me no good my dear; I remembered how Wilde said 'you always destroy the thing you love.' What nonsense. With me at least, the things I love destroy themselves.

Always yours,

John