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I had not long moved into 221B Baker Street with Dr Watson when my new friend began to exhibit some concerning symptoms of a disorder which I diagnosed as a most singular case of neurasthenia.
On our first day and night in our new rooms, we were so busy with unpacking (at least I was, he had only one small trunk, one carpet bag and the clothes he stood in) that I believe we both slept soundly. Certainly I heard nothing from upstairs, although as I was not alert for any unusual behaviour it is possible that I might have slept through it.
He had warned me that he often slept badly, kept unusual hours and paced at night. I put this down to trouble readjusting to the timings of a normal day after his travels far abroad and his lack of routine upon his return, and resolved to mention it to him that he ought to force himself into a more civilised pattern of behaviour.
However on the second night, Watson retired early. I stayed up late to add to my manuscript for a monograph on the characteristics of various types of writing ink and how the manufacturer could be determined from a range of simple chemical tests. As my eyelids began to droop I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Instantly I was alert. “Is that you, Watson?” I called from the sitting room, imagining a pleasant half hour of conversation by the fire, perhaps with a generous nightcap.
The owner of the footsteps did not respond. I heard their inexorable descent, their progress past our sitting room door, and they embarked on a second downward journey towards the front door. I rose to investigate. It was indeed my new friend. I caught up with him as he reached the downstairs hallway and I took his arm to prevent him from going out of the door and into the street barefoot and clad only in his nightshirt.
I stood in his path. “Watson, are you unwell?” He did not answer, but looked past me, through me, his eyes seeking left and right without finding whatever he was looking for. I spoke gently for I could see that, despite being upright and ambulatory, the man was fast asleep. “Watson, come back upstairs.”
He mumbled and frowned. “I’m sorry, dear boy, but I cannot make out a word you are saying. Come upstairs.”
I attempted to take his arm and he flinched. Ah…attack…must see to th’injured.
“You are having a bad dream, my dear.” Carefully, I placed one hand on his arm. He flinched again, shook me off and spoke louder about his duties. He marched to the front door but found me blocking his path. “Please turn around and go upstairs before we accidentally summon Mrs Hudson. Our rooms are most satisfactory and I do not want to be asked to leave them.”
My words made no impression on him whatsoever. Injured…need me…where is my bone saw…laudanum. So much blood.
I shuddered at the images his dream conjured in my own brain. I stood straight and put on the most commanding voice I could muster. “Captain Watson, return to your quarters this instant. I am your commanding officer and you will follow my order.” His face relaxed but he did not turn. “Return to your bed. That is an order. There are no casualties tonight.”
Sir.
His arm waved up then down, which may have been a perfect salute in his own mind, and he turned to ascend the stairs. He went into our sitting room since I had left the door open and one’s feet naturally tread that path rather than turning to ascend to the second floor. To my surprise, instead of waking up he lay on the settee and was soon breathing deeply. I covered him with a blanket and rekindled the flame in the hearth and resolved to sit with him until he woke.
I must have drifted off myself, for I woke in my armchair with the grate containing barely an ember and the settee vacant. The blanket I had used to cover Watson was tucked around me and my feet had been raised onto a footstool fashioned from a small packing crate and a cushion. I crept upstairs to check on my friend. I tapped lightly on his door, eased it open with barely a creak (I have since lubricated the hinges) and peered in. I made the reasonable assumption that the Watson-shaped lump in the bed was indeed Watson.
He barely glanced at me over breakfast. I waited until he had finished with his coffee and the morning paper. “Watson, you are not to worry about it.” His gaze darted over the top of the page he was pretending to read and his neck coloured slightly. “The sleepwalking. Have you read Alexander Brière de Boismont’s On Hallucinations: a History and Explanation of Apparitions, Visions, Dreams, Ecstasy, Magnetism and Somnambulism? It is a most illuminating study. I have a copy, if you are interested. It is in French, unfortunately, but I could obtain a translation if you wish.”
My new friend stared at me, the newspaper lowered. I smiled, encouragingly. “I believe you to be suffering from an obfuscation of the optic nerve and possible repressed emotions after your experiences in Afghanistan.”
I did not tell him that the other explanation for his condition was addiction. I was sure that I would have recognised the signs immediately and forgiven him for that weakness just as quickly.
He sighed and shook his head. The newspaper rose to hide his face. “I used to lock myself in my room at the hotel and hide the key far under the mattress. My bedroom door here has no lock. Perhaps our landlady would permit me to have one fitted.”
“That is one solution.” I left the breakfast table and went to stand by the fire. I watched Watson’s reflection in the mirror for a moment. “I have another solution if that cannot be arranged today, if you will not be too shocked by it.”
He regarded my back with an expression of amusement that warmed my heart as the fire warmed my hands. “Holmes, I have been in the army. Very little shocks me. What is your solution?”
He caught sight of my reflection as I watched him and we both looked away. “Is your somnambulism a nightly occurrence?”
The thought for a moment. “Most nights, I think. I can’t be sure.” He got up to join me by the fire but addressed the flames instead of me. “Holmes, thank you for looking after me last night. I woke a little confused on the settee with you asleep nearby instead of waking alone, frightened and cold in a strange street. I ought to have warned you.”
“You did,” I said after recalling his words when we met a few days ago in my lab at Barts. “You said you paced the room at night. If I assumed that meant you were awake then that is my failing for reaching a conclusion based upon insufficient data.”
“I’ll see about a lock.”
I did not mention my alternative solution because Mrs Hudson arrived and agreed to have a lock fitted on condition that she was furnished with a key for use in emergencies. However, when Watson and I went out to make enquiries, a locksmith could not be engaged for almost a full week due to a sudden concern for security amongst London’s better-off householders who feared for their silverware owing to a spate of petty burglaries.
We trudged home to the warmth of 221B Baker Street with Watson in a troubled mood. I had taken his arm as we walked. That he accepted this friendly gesture without hesitation made up for the miserable weather. I resolved to suggest my own solution to his nocturnal wanderings and thought how best to broach the subject. I stole a glance at Watson’s honest face as he unlocked our front door and decided that a simple, direct statement would be best.
I waited until after dinner, when we were both seated in our armchairs. I silently marvelled at how quickly we had established which was his and which was mine. I chose a pipe from my rack and fiddled with it while I spoke. “Watson, I do not want you to concern yourself about your somnambulism tonight, and I do not want to lie awake listening for your footfall on the stair, poised to spring out of bed to redirect you to safety. I would like to propose my solution.” He looked at me, eyebrow raised. I avoided his gaze. “You must tell me if I speak out of turn but do not be shocked or offended. I assure you I have your best interests at heart.”
“I would consider anything you have to suggest,” he said. “I am truly sorry I am such a poor fellow to have as a flatmate. I don’t want you to be inconvenienced by my unfortunate habit either.”
“Sleep in my bed,” I said before I lost the courage to say it. “You take the side by the wall and then if you attempt to get out of bed you will have to clamber over me, and I will wake up.”
“You would do that for me?” He regarded me with such open surprise that I could not find words to reply. I nodded once. “Holmes, that is a very kind offer.”
“But you refuse?” I sighed. “I don’t believe I snore, and I don’t mind sharing in the slightest. I am sure we will get used to it and accommodate each other well enough. My bed is wider than yours. Of course, if you object to sharing, I understand.”
“My dear man, I don’t object at all. I only want to put you to as little inconvenience as possible.”
“Then tonight you will sleep in my bed and if you attempt to escape I will prevent you from leaving the room, as long as you are asleep, that is. You are free to do as you please whilst conscious.”
“Then I am neither shocked nor offended, and it is settled.” He smiled at me and I smiled back. His smile faltered. “Perhaps if you saw the conditions soldiers are required to endure you would know that I could not possibly be offended by your generous offer. Thank you, I accept.”
“It’s nothing,” I said, stooping by the fire to light my pipe with a spill. We smoked and read in companionable silence until he set down his adventure novel and said he would retire. He went up to his room to wash and change for bed and came back down some time later in nightgown and dressing gown. He asked one more time if I really didn’t mind, then went into my bedroom. He left the door open and I watched him get into my bed.
I found to my surprise that the sight of Watson slipping between my sheets had a most singular effect on me. I waited an hour and smoked another pipe before going to bed. I confess that seeing Watson’s head on my pillow and the curve of his shoulders as I lifted the covers gave me a slight frisson that perplexed me. It felt different to the aesthetic admiration I had occasionally held for the healthy physique of a sportsman. Watson, although clearly once a fit and healthy young man, had been ravaged by his experiences and was thin to the point of gauntness. He did not fit with the pattern of those for whom I had previously experienced transitory attraction. I lay with my back to his and puzzled over why my body reacted to his nearness in this manner. Pulling the covers up to my chin, I closed my eyes and resolved to ignore this particular problem until it went away.
A shifting weight on my side woke me in the small hours. I roused myself quickly - Watson was indeed clambering over me to get out of bed. I got up clutching a handful of his linen nightshirt and stood in front of the open door.
“Murray, get out of the way my dear.”
“Watson, it’s me, Holmes. You are home in Baker Street.”
“Oh, my dear boy, you’ll get us into so much trouble. Now stand aside, Murray, I have wounded to attend to.”
“There are no casualties, Captain.”
He looked confused. The only light came from the gas street-lamps outside the sitting room windows. His eyes glinted as he looked left and right, seeing only spectres of his past.
I spoke quietly and firmly. “Go back to bed. I promise I will wake you if you are required.”
He stood silently for a full minute. When I touched his shoulder, he allowed me to guide him back to bed. I gave him a minute to settle then got in behind him as before.
“Put your arm around me and promise you will wake me, Jamie my love.”
I stilled. I believe I held my breath for several seconds, then I tentatively did as my friend requested. I did not want him to get out of bed again until he woke naturally, so I held him in my arms and murmured a promise. He relaxed in my embrace, his head nestled into my shoulder and his arm thrown across my chest, and fell into a deep sleep.
I woke before he did and left him to slumber on. I devoted my first pipe of the morning to the problem of what to say about Watson’s dream, eventually deciding to say nothing unless he asked me about it.
Watson emerged in good time for lunch. I smiled at his tousled hair. “Did you sleep well?”
“I think so.” He shot me an enquiring glance. “Did I?”
“Mostly.” I sat with my feet up under myself. I held out a hand and he passed me the society pages of one of the newspapers from the pile Mrs Hudson had brought up for me. “Watson, you are a marvel! How did you know which section I wanted to read first?”
He laughed. “I didn’t. I merely wanted the news section for myself. What did you mean by mostly?”
“You got up saying you had wounded to attend to. I had to pretend to be someone called Jamie Murray to get you to go back to bed.”
His face clouded. “You must not give any weight to anything I might say in my sleepwalking episodes.”
“Of course not.” I opened the newspaper and perused the engagements, marriages and deaths. “It was a dream, and therefore your words were not under your command. However, you must have held this man in high esteem, for when you believed I was he, you meekly did as I asked and went back to bed.”
I peeked around my shield. He was still frowning, but not in anger. After a moment he sighed. “He was my orderly. James Murray saved my life at great risk to his own. The greatest risk. He took the Low Road, as he would have said.”
“Ah. I am sorry for the loss of your friend.” I lied, of course. If this man had not spent his own life in saving Watson’s, I would not have Watson sitting opposite me contemplating the flames in the hearth.
“I lost a great many friends,” he said quietly. “But I would rather not dwell upon it.” He smiled and all seemed right with the world again. “I’ll get dressed for the day. After lunch, would you come out with me for a walk around the park?”
I would have preferred a quiet afternoon by the fire, reading and perhaps discussing one or two snippets from the newspapers, but I recognised that a walk would be a better distraction for Watson. We ambled around Regent’s Park for an hour or two, my hand comfortable in the crook of his elbow. I entertained him with deductions about some of the people we observed and in turn he entertained me with a few tales of some of his happier memories from the army.
“You have deduced the nature of my friendship with Murray.”
I stole a glance at his face and found a wistful smile there. “I think so. But I will say nothing about it. Your memories cause you distress, I fear.”
“Not all of them.” He stopped beside the pond and a few waterfowl paddled over hopefully. “I am glad to have known him. I only wish…”
“That he had taken the High Road back with you?”
“Yes. We would have separated, of course. I wish… Sometimes I wished… when I thought I was at the end of my tether…”
“That he had saved himself instead of you?”
He nodded slowly. A grubby child was selling stale bread to feed the ducks. On a whim I called her over and purchased a crust with a penny. I handed it to Watson. “You better feed them. That one looks vicious.”
He laughed and crumbled the crust into fragments, then cast the handful over the surface of the water, sending the fowl after it in a flurry of splashing and squawking. “Quick,” he said, patting my arm. “We must make our escape before they notice.”
Back in front of our fire, Watson’s mood once more turned melancholy. I played my violin for a while after supper, finding that Mendelssohn made him smile. “I am sorry about Murray,” I said when I broke off. “But I am most grateful for what he did for you.” I immediately began playing my own arrangement of one of the lieder, facing the window so that I would not see his face. “I will be working a great deal of the next few days, so you might not see much of me.”
“I understand.” He waited until I finished and then gave me a modest round of applause, to which I responded with a bow. “I will sleep in my own bed. It is unfair of me to ruin your sleep when—”
“Nonsense! My dear old boy, you will share mine for reasons we have already discussed and that’s an end of it. I have pretended so far to be your commanding officer and then your lover. What next? Perhaps tonight I will have the honour of acting the part of your crusty old school housemaster, or your prim and proper nanny. I assure you, I can do both.”
I stopped gesturing sternly at him with my bow and put my violin away. When I faced him again, my fear that he would be angry with me turned out to be unfounded. He laughed and leaned forwards. “If I have a dream about old Master Macintosh, for the love of God please wake me from my torment!”
I laughed with him. We sat up for a while, sipping brandy and reading without the need for conversation. He went upstairs to get ready for bed and when he returned we sat a little longer in our nightshirts and dressing gowns and slippers, with a second glass of brandy. Eventually he put his novel down, bade me goodnight and went to bed. Again, I watched him slip between my sheets. Again, my physical response, although a little more muted, sent a frisson through my core. Again, I chose to ignore it.
But the knowledge that having had this Jamie Murray as his lover, he might possibly accept me in that role made the task all the more difficult. I went to bed resigned to humiliation should he notice but he was facing the wall, fast asleep. I thought of how, mistaking me for his lover, he had asked me to hold him while he slept. I hoped he would ask me to do so again.
Until then, I turned my back to his, pulled the covers up under my chin and fell asleep.
I woke in the small hours once more with Watson trying to get up to save the lives and limbs of soldiers long dead. This time I was ready. I sat up. “Come back to bed, love,” I said gently, one hand on his shoulder and the other stroking his hair. “You are having a bad dream. There are no wounded tonight. Come back and sleep in my arms. I’ll wake you if we are needed.”
He lay down again with barely a murmur of protest. I kept my promise. I held him until he was in deep sleep. If I kissed his head as it lay on my shoulder, he did not need to know.
I woke with his head still on my shoulder and my arm numb because of it. I eased his head onto the pillow, stroked his hair, kissed his forehead, and got out of bed as quietly as I could.
“Holmes.”
I froze.
“Holmes?”
I turned slowly.
His voice was quiet but his words were distinct. “Thank you.”
He looked peaceful. I spoke softly. “Go back to sleep, old boy. I will be back for supper tonight.”
My day was productive enough, with two small mysteries cleared up, Lestrade of the Yard given enough hints that even he could solve a third, and my coffers a little fuller. I returned to 221B Baker Street, foot-weary but satisfied with my work. My blossoming mood soon withered as I entered through the front door almost to collide with a workman leaving.
“The locksmith had a cancellation and came to see to Dr Watson’s door as he requested, Mr Holmes. Would you tell him I’ll send the maid up to tidy?”
“Yes,” I snapped, then forced out, “thank you, Mrs Hudson.”
Watson was in his armchair. “I see you have your lock now.” I dropped my cane into its place in the hatstand then took off my gloves, hat and coat. I avoided looking at him. “I should like a copy of the key, if that is agreeable. And your permission to come upstairs should I hear you pacing the floor and trying to escape.”
“I already asked Mrs Hudson if the spare key could be kept in your possession until I can get another made for her tomorrow. Here.” He stood up and held the key out to me. We exchanged a smile as I took it. “You know,” he said with a slightly nervous, thoughtful expression, “I owe you a great deal. These last two evenings, my mind has been easier for the knowledge that I will not embarrass or endanger myself by sleepwalking right out onto the street.”
I waved away his gratitude and busied myself with cleaning and filling my pipe. “In my opinion, despite your new lock you ought to sleep in my room again tonight. The first time you shared my bed, you got up and had to be persuaded back under the covers. The second - last night - you were more amenable to being redirected back to sleep. Perhaps tonight you might manage to remain where you are with no more than a little play-acting and a word or two of reassurance.”
“You wouldn’t mind the disturbance to your own sleep?”
“My dear boy, I will be far less disturbed by your waking me for a few minutes than by being kept awake by the concern that you might put yourself in harm’s way without even realising it.”
“You are a very kind man,” he said. I risked a glance at him and found his eyes fixed on me. I shrugged and focused on lighting my pipe. “Perhaps the kindest man I know. Next time I see Stamford I will thank him properly.”
“Oh, do hush.” I hid behind the evening paper. “You would change your mind if you knew what I did for employment.”
“About that,” he said with a slight chuckle. “I am all ears, if you would care to enlighten me!”
Watson proved to be an excellent listener. He let me speak at length, showed wonder at my cleverness, asked questions where I had missed out the logical steps in my reasoning and laughed with delight when he saw how a simple set of deductions built up into a firm conclusion that I had seemingly plucked from thin air. I told him about a few of my earliest cases - not merely the successes but the failures too - and he sympathised openly with my frustration at seeing a criminal walk free.
“Your cases would make excellent plots for adventure stories,” he said when I tired of talking. “My doctor,” he said, tapping his temple at the word doctor, “suggested I write about my experiences as a way of… of laying certain experiences to rest before I attempt to set myself up in civilian practice. But I don’t want to think of it and I doubt any future patients would want to read of those horrors.”
“You can write about my old cases if you wish. I see no harm in it, although I fail to comprehend how anyone would find such a dry topic of interest. Perhaps a few forward-thinking policemen would find them engaging, or students of the criminal psyche. But I suppose you might find the activity diverting enough.”
He looked overjoyed. I promised to furnish him with one of my old commonplace books and a couple of my monographs. He looked eager to get started immediately, but supper arrived and I suggested that tomorrow would be quite soon enough. After supper, he read in silence with a glass of port and a cigar (I had purchased a box for him on a whim and thrust them at him in a rather offhanded manner as soon as we had finished eating - he was a little taken aback but pleased enough with my choice). I settled at the writing desk to write the day’s notes and paste the relevant clippings into my current commonplace book. As I did so, I wondered if I also ought to thank Stamford sincerely whenever I saw him next.
Watson nodded off in his chair twice before admitting defeat and going up to get ready for bed. I raced to wash and change too. I held a slight fear that he would decide after all to lock himself in his own room for the night. I reflected that although I would appreciate the extra space to stretch out, I would miss his warmth and the way enfolding him in my arms made me feel in equal measure protective and comforted.
I eventually got into bed alone. Watson tapped on my door and came in a few minutes later, with an apology that he had taken so long because Janey the maid had tidied his room to such an extent that he could not find his spare nightshirt. He closed the door behind him. I got out of bed, he got in, I got in after him and we laughed quietly about the situation before bidding each other a good night. Before we turned back to back, he stroked my hair and cupped my cheek for the barest second. Had his gentle touch lingered, I would have kissed him.
Several hours later, I awoke to find Watson in my arms. The light of morning had not yet penetrated our refuge, although I sensed that it must be almost daybreak. Had he tried to leave my bed and been prevented without my awareness of it? I thought not. I am not such a heavy sleeper as that. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.
I was roused by the sound of our sitting room fire being lit. When I opened my eyes in the grey daylight that seeped in between my curtains, I found Watson looking at me. He smiled. “I dreamed about Jamie,” he said quietly. “But this time I knew it was you.”
“Were you disappointed?”
“No.” He closed his eyes again and made no attempt to move or turn away. “I was glad. Not that Jamie is gone, but that I was not thinking about those terrible days and nights of war.”
I felt a prick of shame that I had hoped he was glad to be in my bed, with my arms around him rather than his old lover’s. For a spiteful second I hated this James Murray. But the unworthy moment passed. “Do you miss him terribly?”
“Not any more.” Watson sighed and yawned, covering his mouth with the hand that had been around my waist. I wanted him to put it back there. “I expect I will always think of him, but we were not together for long really and it was more circumstance than choice that brought us together.”
“You were not in love with him?”
He laughed gently. “I suppose not. I felt so guilty, like he had saved my life for no reason.”
“I am very glad he did!” I held him a little tighter for a few seconds and I felt the delightfully warm weight of his arm around my waist again. I sighed. “I ought to get out of bed, I have a case to work on that requires me to visit the vilest dens of iniquity this city has to offer.”
“Perhaps I ought to accompany you,” he said as I sat up and swung my legs out into the cold of the room. “I have my service revolver and I know both how and when to use it.” I stood and put on my slippers and dressing gown, thinking Watson would sleep on for another hour or two, but he sat up and called me back before I reached the door. “No good morning kiss today, Holmes? Now I am disappointed.”
I turned and he grinned at my look of utter surprise. With a sharp laugh, I took two large steps back over to my bed, sat down, held his head and kissed his lips. There was little finesse in it, since I had so little experience in such matters. He yielded to the onslaught for a few seconds then pulled back. I expected to be buffeted away and called a brute, but he caught my jaw in his hand and guided me into a kiss of such insistent gentleness that I was quite affected by it.
I let him do as he pleased, demonstrate in the most expert fashion how to administer such affection, and I copied like a willing student should. He pulled me back into bed and our hands roved each other’s linen-clad bodies, seeking treasures like some greedy explorer intent on plunder. He spoke between increasingly heated kisses. “Will London’s vilest dens of iniquity wait a little longer? Will ten or twenty minutes delay you unacceptably?”
I confessed (to his delighted laughter) that I cared for nothing in that moment but his hands on my prick and mine on his. We did not require more than a few minutes to bring each other to a satisfactory conclusion, but lying abed in his arms after such a pleasure made me think for a while that London’s criminals could do as they wished today and the official police could flounder and flap for want of brainpower. But after ten more minutes, he gave my shoulder a shove.
“Up you get, my dear. You have a case and I would not wish to keep you from it. May I help?”
I smiled and caressed his face, feeling the roughness of his unshaven cheek, comparing it with the unexpected softness of his moustache. He kissed the pad of my thumb. I thought of his injury and his hardship-ravaged build, and the likely physical demands of today’s investigations. “Not this time, my boy. As soon as I get a case that requires it, I will call on your expertise.”
To my surprise, I realised that I meant it. I had thought merely to put him off as my occupation is generally a solitary one, but the more I imagined having a friend and colleague by my side the more I liked the idea. I left my bed with some reluctance and dressed for the day while he watched me like a contented cat and I absorbed the attention as hungrily as an actor in his first starring role.
“I have changed my mind,” I said leaning down to kiss him. “Get up, get dressed, and bring your revolver.”