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A certain minority of my readership would, I imagine, be rather surprised to learn that the relationship between myself and Mr Sherlock Holmes had remained purely platonic even following his return to London and the resumption of our comfortably domestic lives together at 221b Baker Street. I felt I had been so transparent about my own affections that anyone on the street, or still more worryingly, any Scotland-Yarder, would recognise them in an instant, let alone the genius of observation with whom I shared quarters. Yet he made no sign of his interest in me, nor in men generally, nor in anyone else in the world, and remained typically dismissive on the subject of love and romance whenever the topic arose – that is, until we received a letter from an old client early in ‘96.
I say “an old client”, though at the time he was a recent one – Sir Henry Baskerville, that good-natured and sensitive gentleman who had come from abroad to inherit his family’s Dartmoor estate. I doubt I need remind most readers of the details of the case; the family curse, the spectral hound, and the bleak Devonshire landscape having had a particular effect on the public imagination over the years. The last I had heard of Sir Henry was from Dr Mortimer, the young country practitioner with a penchant for archaeology, who had reassured Holmes and I of Sir Henry’s ongoing recovery and mentioned that he was considering a sea voyage, “the best medicine for an Englishman”, as the doctor advised, to regain his strength and overcome the shock of his ordeal.
The stamps on the envelope seemed to proclaim that he had not ignored his doctor’s prescription. Although it was quite a hefty letter, made up of several sheets at least from the weight of it, and I was full of anticipation to find a series of lighthearted tales of adventure written in Sir Henry’s buoyant style, I could not in good conscience begin my perusal without Holmes, to whom the letter was naturally primarily addressed. Propping the letter behind an old teacup on the mantelpiece, I halfheartedly resumed my book.
It still being the time of year when afternoon light fails all too quickly, I soon found it necessary to rest my eyes from the strain of reading, and must have fallen into a doze, for the next thing I remember was Holmes’s strident voice against the clamour of his boots upon the stair, alerting the entire household and our surrounding neighbours that he was ready for his supper and would prefer it immediately. To Mrs Hudson’s credit, the practised way she balanced the trays up the stairs scarcely five minutes later showed the extent to which she had developed her own strange method of discerning the unpredictable patterns by which Sherlock Holmes lived his life.
Holmes, seemingly successful on whatever secret mission led him to spend most of the day without me, was full of excitement, and began to expound on various insignificant matters and observations of the day while leaving the full purpose of his absence in obscurity. On these occasions when I am left behind, though rarer than they once were, I confess to being piqued that Holmes cannot or will not find some use for me, and perhaps considers me a liability, even if he has had good reason to believe so. This evening, however, his high spirits, the hearty meal, and a glass of good wine left me in as fine a mood as he, and I allowed him to steer the conversation and eradicate my annoyance with his own exuberance.
Relaxed once more, I sat by the fire, soaking up his humour, and finally remembered the letter.
‘I say, Holmes, I nearly forgot to mention it. We’ve received a letter today from Sir Henry Baskerville.’
‘Have we?’ Holmes began filling his pipe. ‘By all means open it, I should be very interested to learn whether Mortimer has managed to cure his patient in full.’ He struck a match, then leaned back in his chair in that torpid posture which suggested disinterest, though in fact it meant that I held his full attention.
Breaking the seal on the envelope, I could immediately see that it contained sheets of paper folded into two individual letters, one far tidier and crisply-folded than the other. Opening the first, I recognised Dr Mortimer’s careful hand, and said as much to Holmes. A small smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. He implored me to read on, and so I began:
Dear Mr Holmes and Dr Watson,
It is my great pleasure to inform you that my patient, Sir Henry Baskerville, has now made a full recovery, and has spent these last months enjoying a prescription of sea travel (if not quite ‘round-the-world, then certainly ‘round the continent and more). To ensure his continued well-being following the great shock he received, I offered to accompany him both as a doctor and friend, and I daresay we have both benefited tremendously from a change of air after the events of last autumn.
I will not bore you overmuch with tales of our time abroad thus far; suffice it to say that your old clients have had ample leisure time to fully appreciate how truly grateful we are to the both of you. My main purpose in writing is, in fact, to provide you, Dr Watson, with a little addition to your notes, in case the story of the curse of the Hound of the Baskervilles ever finds its way to print. Now, it is likely that Sir Henry would not wish me to tell you this; however, I prefer when stories do not leave their loose ends untied, and perhaps many readers of The Strand share my view. Therefore, I would like to inform you of particular events that occurred between your leaving Devonshire and our departure from Baskerville Hall to the ferry at Plymouth around the end of October.
Sir Henry and Mrs Beryl Stapleton, as you know, had interested one another greatly in the first weeks of their acquaintance. Not long after Stapleton’s death on that horrible night, when Sir Henry eventually learned that she was not in fact Stapleton’s sister, but his wife, he wished to speak plainly with her about everything now that she was no longer under his power. After that discussion, she began to pay regular visits to the Hall and would spend an hour or more in Sir Henry’s company at a time, while he, still mostly confined to his sickbed and beginning to grow frustrated with the rest I had prescribed, welcomed her with much enthusiasm.
On one occasion, having left them to converse together, I was downstairs reading in the main hall, and after a short time, she descended the staircase quietly crying and accompanied by a rapidly chattering Mrs Barrymore – however, at my concern, she quickly assured me that they were tears of happiness. I could only assume that some arrangement between the two had finally been arrived at, and congratulated her, which she accepted with sparkling eyes. I reentered Sir Henry’s room and pressed his hand, and told him how pleased I was and how happy I hoped he would be, though I am afraid my tone did no justice to my words – possibly I was struck with a sudden irrational jealousy, knowing that an engagement would disrupt the travel plans which we had made together.
Henry laughed, ordering me to be less sombre, and I managed a smile for his benefit. ‘You have nothing to fear, dear fellow,’ he told me. ‘I may have made Beryl a present, but nothing quite so serious as my hand in marriage!’
My smile became more genuine at that, but I suppressed my selfish instincts and inquired, if he was not bound to discretion in the matter, whether I might know what other present could have overcome her with happiness in such a way, and Henry elaborated.
Before her marriage, she had said, as a young woman in Costa Rica, it had been her dream to start a girls’ school. She had mentioned it often to Stapleton during their courtship, who no doubt had this in mind when starting the infamous boys’ school in Yorkshire, but it was clear that he saw the enterprise as a financial investment more than anything else, and Mrs Stapleton’s ideas and contributions went continually unheeded. When the school failed and they moved to this remote part of the country, she forced herself to forget her hope.
Now that she is a free woman once again, Sir Henry said, it would do her good to remember it. Though she would not be left in poverty, she would have precious little capital with which to enact her plans. Therefore, he said, once she decided where to set up, he would send through the funds and make sure she was well-supported in her endeavours.
I was quite astonished at this, and exclaimed that I had been certain they had developed a romantic interest in one another practically from their first meeting. Henry simply shook his head, blushing, saying two people who each felt themselves trapped in a dire situation would naturally be drawn together, looking for escape. It soon became clear that their dreams were too different, too incompatible, with Sir Henry becoming increasingly keen on managing and improving his estate, and Mrs Stapleton intent to prove herself on her own merits.
I am sorry, Dr Watson, to take away from the underlying romance which would surely have brought some light into that tale of mystery and horror. However, I know that you and Mr Holmes value the truth above all things, and I know that you will be all the more gratified to have helped such a fine example of a gentleman. There is more I could tell you – his growing fondness for and confidence in the Barrymores, who by the time of our leaving had taken to him as a son, and his brotherly interest in Laura Lyons’s welfare, intending to carry on where Sir Charles’s generosity had been cut short – but we land in Italy tomorrow for the final stage of our tour, and I must begin preparing for our arrival.
I give my deepest regards to you both, and remain,
Your humble
Dr James Mortimer
All this was very welcome news, and I began commenting on my happiness to know that he and Sir Henry were enjoying themselves abroad, and my surprise at the direction Sir Henry and Mrs Stapleton’s friendship had taken. (I also thought perhaps Mortimer was mistaken in thinking my readers would prefer truth over romance, but didn’t mention this to Holmes, as it would set off a well-trodden argument about “excessive sentimentalism” in my work.)
Holmes also appeared pleased and gratified to hear news of their health and travels, but seemed for a moment lost in thought, gazing at the fire.
‘Do you notice, Watson, how Mortimer said “ our departure from Baskerville Hall”? What do you make of that?’
Out of everything in that letter, it seemed he had alighted on a comparative trifle. ‘Nothing much, merely that they departed together, and that Mortimer had surely been spending a good deal of time there.’
‘Yes, that seems likely enough. But those few slips in the middle, just “Henry”, without the title…’ He trailed off, then shrugged dismissively at my blank look and folded back into his cryptic posture. ‘Well, I assume the other is from Sir Henry himself?’
‘Indeed it is,’ I replied, and unfolded the other letter, where I fondly recognised the sprawling and untidy hand of our old friend, and read:
Dear Gentlemen,
Mortimer informed me that he was penning you an update as to my condition, and upon glancing over the aforesaid missive, could scarcely believe the subject matter nor the damned formality of the thing. Therefore, I have been forced to take up my own pen and add a little more colour to our adventures.
Before we left Devonshire, during those few long weeks when I wasn’t quite well enough to go about as usual but bored out of my mind with all the rest I was getting, I got my first taste of running Baskerville Hall. I’m afraid I was a poor companion for you, Watson, gloomy, drunk, and (I admit) missing my old home a little, but now I’m thinking of all sorts of exciting plans for the estate. James and I will be returning in about a month in the middle of chilly February, so my first order of business was telling the Barrymores to cosy up the place a bit before our return – just because I’ve set my sights on becoming a real English gentleman doesn’t mean I have to live in a draughty old estate where it’s cold enough to see my breath half the year. It’s a magnificent place in a bleak and beautiful piece of country, and hope you’ll come visit me there again under happier circumstances – just say the word whenever you want a holiday.
Our own holiday has been marvellous. I’ve done plenty of travelling around the Americas, where there’s more than enough open country to explore, but it’s nothing like this! We started off on one of Thomas Cook’s steamships, which got us a good ways down the Nile and gave us access to Soudan and Egypt. Coming back up out of Africa, we landed in half a dozen coastal cities of the Near East. We then had a short stop-off in Greece, and are planning to stick with the Continent for the rest of the journey, with less than a day until our arrival at Naples. From there, our plan is to travel on land through Italy and France, and a quick hop across the Channel will bring us home. I feel I’ve learned more about the world in the past two months than I ever did as a schoolboy! James, of course, mostly had eyes for Egypt, and would’ve happily lived there for years among the camps of scientists analysing bones, arguing about little differences in structures of the skull, and making endless discoveries to take home to England, and I assured him continually that his archaeological work in Devonshire was just as interesting and important, though I may not be the best judge.
Mortimer’s letter, I realise, skipped over the finer details of our journey to tell you how healthy and wonderful he thinks I am, so I’d better get my own back and list some of his excellent qualities for you to review. Beyond what is expected of a doctor, he is full of deep and genuine compassion for his fellow man. His scholarliness is not confined to medicine or archaeology, but also to languages, as I have heard him speaking French, German, and Italian with other passengers, and even some Arabic among the North Africans. He has a wonderful fair complexion which blushes up to the ears with the slightest provocation and never ceases to charm me.
He’s got a sense of humour, too, because apparently, Holmes, the silly man told you he had a wife ! No doubt it had become an automatic response to these sorts of enquiries from all his old med student pals in the city, but I bet he forgot he was talking to the great detective Mr Sherlock Holmes, who would have easily seen through such an incredible fabrication.
(I remembered Holmes had huffed a little when Mortimer made that comment, and I daresay where I assumed he had been slightly flustered at the time by his own incorrect deduction, he was in fact stifling a laugh or some still more inappropriate outburst at the thought that poor Mortimer could possibly be a married man. I read on, and strove with some difficulty through the next sentences, bold as they were:)
Well, she’d have the devil of a time with that one, if she existed. No, outside of a professional setting, he’s not much of a one for the ladies, but that’s all the better for me, eh?
Holmes could not contain himself any longer, and burst out into a peal of laughter, though I failed to understand what amused him so deeply.
I gathered my wits enough to speak. ‘My God, Holmes! Why on earth is he telling us this?’
I must have appeared completely dumbfounded, but Holmes, registering the absence of horror or disgust in my expression, answered me gently.
‘Our friend may be a little…impulsive, Watson, but he would not wilfully put himself or Dr Mortimer in danger over such a delicate matter. He is obviously completely confident that we are discreet, as far as this subject goes.’
‘But what could have convinced him of our discretion with such certainty? The topic never arose while I was staying at Baskerville Hall.’
With a glint in his eye, Holmes replied that, while not a common occurrence, it was not the first time since our acquaintance that the assumption had been made.
‘Do you mean…I say, Holmes! Do you mean to tell me that I– or you– well, that we give the impression– that is, we have somehow given the general public the idea that we– erm, well, that we’re–’
Throughout my sputtering, the glint had turned to a sparkle, and I was thankfully interrupted. ‘Come now, Watson,’ he said, with a touch of put-on petulance in his voice, ‘won’t you read the rest of the letter? That is, if it doesn’t offend your sensibilities as an upstanding member of British society.’
My blush deepened. After a moment, I cleared my throat and continued:
And gentlemen, I really can’t believe my luck – to think, the man who was the executor of my poor uncle’s will, who looked out for me so well even when I didn’t believe the danger I was in, and who gave up his time nursing me back to health, would develop the same interest in me that I had in him!
I could list many more of his unique virtues, but even I have limits as to what I can put into writing, and anyway, I prefer action to words, especially in this case. Suffice it to say that when we first came together, if you understand me, it was like no other experience of that nature I had ever had, and all the while he spoke with such sweet daring into my ear it made my heart sing with elation.
Anyway, I didn’t mean to go on and on like a schoolgirl with her first sweetheart. I catch myself thinking all sorts of crazy things my younger self would tease me to pieces over. James is missing his old spaniel even with me trotting at his side when we go out on our expeditions, so I’ll have to see if I can get him a dog when we’re back – he hasn’t mentioned getting another one, and is likely worried I wouldn’t stand it, but it would be good to have an animal about the Hall for company (so long as he is a well-trained, well-fed little fellow).
I’m being pestered to pack up my room, and so must leave you with this rather haphazard bit of correspondence for the time being. You two were the second friends I made in England (after James, of course), and I’m keen to keep your acquaintance even if my interest as a client is all worn out. Holmes, we may not have a whole lot in common now that I’ve got no mystery to solve, besides the many various benefits of having a doctor as a companion, but it would be an honour to be your host once again if you ever need a break from the city. I eagerly await your reply, and am,
With affectionate regards,
Your friend,
Sir Henry Baskerville
‘Goodness me,’ I said with a relieved sigh, having just managed to come to the end of the letter before the total dissolution of my composure.
Holmes remained unruffled, and in fact appeared rather pensive. ‘An odd pair, maybe,’ he remarked, ‘but they somehow suit one another. If only it could be added to your story, Watson, your readers would not be deprived of a romance after all.’
I mumbled my agreement, and there was a long stretch of silence where I simply sat with Sir Henry’s letter in my hand, attempting to process all I had read while ignoring Holmes’ keen eyes upon me. Holmes eventually arose, and leaning over the fire screen, tapped out the ashes of his pipe and spread the remaining embers, a clear sign that he would soon be off to bed.
‘Well, my dear Watson,’ he said teasingly, ‘we certainly have our work cut out for us tomorrow in penning a suitable reply!’
At first this comment filled me with dread, but Holmes’s cheekiness and the general ridiculousness of the situation caused me to chuckle in spite of it. ‘That, my dear Holmes, is a serious understatement.’
Passing my chair, he placed his hand upon my shoulder and smiled warmly. ‘You had better get some rest.’
I nodded in reply, holding his gaze.
With a squeeze of my shoulder, Holmes softly bid me goodnight and retired to his bedroom.
The door clicked shut, and I let out a long breath. My feelings were indescribable, and all at odds with one another. I regret to say that, though I was genuinely pleased for Sir Henry and Dr Mortimer, what truly delighted me was Holmes’s reaction, his gentle teasing, his own obvious gratification at hearing their affection for one another described with such candidness, and finally, the way his eyes met mine as he left the room.
It was the first time I truly allowed myself to believe that Holmes might experience any sort of desire, and that there could even be a chance of his interest in and affection for my own self that went beyond the strictly platonic. I remember how light I felt, and how filled with a hope for something which, a mere hour before, I had thought to be beyond my reach. No confession had been shared, but I knew that we were now more than ever in one another’s confidence, and this gave me a profound feeling of satisfaction.
Whether it took days, months, or years, I would finally discover my courage. Holmes would, as he did on so many evenings following a cosy conversation before the fire, pass my chair, rest a delicate hand on my shoulder, and drop a low ‘ Goodnight, old fellow ,’ into my ear – but instead of letting him go alone to his room, I would catch up his hand, press a warm kiss against it, and offer to join him in sleep, in passion, or anything he wished.
And then, of course, I would be obliged to return the gratitude of our friend Sir Henry for revealing something to us which may always have remained hidden, and for showing us the path to our own complete and perfect happiness.