4 RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

Watson announced his marriage in measured tones. Only the lack of any real exuberance suggested how tenuous the situation was. Holmes' features moved not a fraction of an inch. However some crucial difference occurred in their casting. It was like a statue in the garden, which might seem beatific by the light of the sun, yet tragic by the moon.

"Quite wise I am sure, and quite ... correct," was his reply.

"Holmes..." For all that Watson wanted to say he feared what he would give away.

Holmes stood. His hands were shaking so strongly that it was apparent even when he clasped them together to still them.

"Watson, it is quite apparent that this of all things I am not to investigate. Your qualifications I may insult, your intellect I may disparage, but I don't doubt your sincerity or your..." He took a deep breath. "..."

Holmes failed to find the word he was looking for. "Whatever you think best," he concluded weakly.

Holmes retreated, closing his bedroom door behind him so softly, as if it, or he, was made of glass.

Watson sat immobile, listening to the ringing in his ears. By the mantle clock he watched a minute pass. Then he walked slowly and cautiously up the stairs, as if the slightest creak would break his heart.

His meager belongings still fitted inside his old army trunk. He closed the lid and sat back on the bed contemplating the bare room. So little to show for his life, and nothing at all to show for his brief relationship with Holmes. He would send a cab for the trunk tomorrow, no need to reopen the wound he had been forced to cause. Until the wedding he could stay at a hotel, Mary had the resources to indulge him in that.

As he walked back down, the sitting room was still empty. Watson stood there among Holmes' clutter, smiling sadly at the last sight of the familiar. His hand crept out across the table and closed upon the old clay pipe that lay there. He put it in his pocket. Holmes was not apparent at his window, as Watson walked away; as ever, he was deeper inside.

Watson walked to the new house, which Mary's pearls had purchased, and his own indiscretion, occupied. A workman was installing a new brass plate. He admired the engraving of his own name and qualifications, then walked through into the parlor. The floor gleamed with new wax; its furniture glowed with plush new fabrics. Watson stared out at the street like a caged animal.

Mary entered with a paint chart in her hands, and stopped, surprised. "It will take you a while to build up the practice again," she commented with a nervous smile.

"I dare say that it will keep me busy," Watson agreed with equanimity.

"It will help you get used to things." Mary put one hand fondly on his shoulder. "It's for the best."

"You believe that and won't be dissuaded," Watson agreed, tired of the long and fruitless argument. "I hope you are right because our vows will be irrevocable, and we will both have to do our best by them."

"It isn't natural, John."

"No?" Watson was too broken to show strength of emotion. "How does blackmail fit in the natural order of things?"

He sat upon the sofa. He produced the old pipe, filled and lit it. Noting and ignoring Mary's unease.

"John?"

"Holmes needs his cases more than me, it keeps him sane, and he needs his reputation to pursue them across the whole spectrum of society. He needs that more than he needs me..." He turned to Mary. "I will do my best to make our bargain as undistressing as possible, more I cannot promise."

"You will promise to love, honor and protect, John. I know well that you are capable of it, however misplaced." Mary's resolve rested on the tender hope that time would make a more joyous union of her own very real love for John Watson, but she meant to have him either way. She returned to settling their house to her satisfaction.

Watson held the warm clay tightly but the pipe would not draw nor the tobacco burn. They were long cold days ahead.