My Dear Watson by L.A. Fields Read Free Book Online

have to wait long, since the whole point was for Holmes to prove that no one owned him; Holmes would have noticed that Watson’s footfalls stopped in the hallway and did not continue upstairs. He knew he was being observed. Colonel Hayter probably did not, but he had only one thing on his mind, and it wasn’t Watson.
    Watson has complimented Holmes’s acting ability on numerous occasions, and about this he was not exaggerating. It’s a delicate matter to proposition another man in this century, and it was certainly more dangerous during the last. After the Labouchère Amendment passed in 1886, getting caught participating in “gross indecency” (which could be anything that made the public clutch at its pearls) was no longer just a personal disaster among one’s relations or a fatal blow to one’s reputation; it could mean a jail sentence, even castration. The day the amendment passed Holmes threw down the paper in disgust and told Watson not to worry, not about themselves at least; “These bumbling fools who call themselves the law, I’d like to see them prove a single charge against me. I could have them turning in circles like a dog after its tail.”
    Right as he may have been, Holmes was still not so unwise as to be reckless. No one could speak the thing aloud, and so it had to be communicated by body and movement and expression. Holmes stood from his seat slowly and started examining the Colonel’s gun collection, prompting Hayter to rise as well and join Holmes beside his display of weapons, standing close behind the newly international consulting detective.
    It was past the point of words. Watson held his breath watching, on a razor’s edge between horror and hunger, between offense and obsession.
    Holmes stretched out a long, dexterous finger to stroke one of the gun barrels, and when Hayter and Holmes next looked at each other, it was all confirmed in an instant. Holmes laid his hand on the back of Hayter’s neck, his thumb stroking Hayter’s Burnside beard, pulling him closer with some real strength; no matter how much it is clearly desired, resistance seems to be an eternal component in these sorts of couplings, as if men must always fight for it.
    Watson witnessed this scene as long as he could stand it. Hayter’s easy reception absolutely mystified him, because he never realized that Hayter’s constant invitations to the country were motivated by anything other than friendship. He was also stunned, almost more than he was hurt, that Holmes would pursue another the same way he had gone after Watson himself. He naïvely thought he was the only one, bless his innocent heart. And here he was finally learning just how much farther than he these men of the world had traveled.
    Watson watched their mouths tangle roughly, the sweetness of what a kiss should be nearly lost in a clash of teeth and whiskers. He turned away when Holmes finally set down his drink to unfasten Hayter’s collar. Unlike Holmes, Watson can only cause himself so much pain before he has mercy. Watson had horrible dreams that night of vipers circling each other, striking back and forth, one with tiny needles for fangs, and the other with the head of a gun. He can still remember the way his skin crawled when he woke up. He told me about it with a shiver.
    The next morning, Holmes was perfectly chipper, revoltingly so. Hayter alone had the decency to avoid Watson’s gaze in shame, though he had quite a time of it once the local Inspector came to beg Holmes away, and Holmes maliciously spoke only to the Colonel as he left Hayter and Watson sitting together, alone. It was a tense while before Watson (of course) at last took pity and said to Hayter: “It isn’t you who should feel guilty.”
    “What happened wasn’t my intent,” Hayter mumbled into his mustache.
    “Of course not,” Watson said. “But no man’s intent could stand up against his.”
    Hayter met Watson’s eyes across his breakfast table, and now he was the one