us. I was willing to bet that his thoughts were miles away from the white and silver winter scene and were instead far to the south, under blue Mediterranean skies. I wanted to reach out to him, and encourage him to seek solace in my presence.
Unable to stop myself, I reached over and touched his wrist gently. He glanced over at me, at the look of concern that I was sure was written across my face, and smiled faintly, covering my hand with his own and pressing it gently. We did not speak during the rest of the performance, although I vowed that when we got home I would raise the subject of Douglas Maberley with Holmes.
It may be thought impossibly naïve if I say that, even at that moment, I did not entertain the notion that Holmes's feelings for the other man may have been deeper than those of a casual affair. Holmes had declared his love for me in no uncertain terms; he had shown it by dashing across Europe and returning to London, at considerable risk to his own safety, because Mycroft's wires had at last succeeded in reaching him on his wanderings and informing him that I had lost my wife and was once more quite alone in the world.
That, in addition to dozens of small gestures that he made on a daily basis, convinced me that I had nothing to fear; a man does not go to such lengths for a passing attraction. But my heart ached for Holmes as I watched him trying to accept that one of his old lovers – a young man in the prime of life – was now dead.
After the heart-rending finale, we stood outside the Opera House, thunderous applause still ringing in our ears, and I faced Holmes.
"Shall we find a hansom cab, then?" I asked, when he made no move towards the line of cabs waiting outside the Opera House.
"For you, yes," Holmes answered. "I have one more visit I must make this evening. Alone."
"Holmes–"
"I insist, Watson. I need to pay a call on Langdale Pike."
I knew the name – Langdale Pike was Holmes's human book of reference upon all matters of social scandal. This strange, languid creature spent his waking hours in the bow window of a St. James's Street club and was the receiving station as well as the transmitter for all the gossip of the metropolis. He made, it was said, a four-figure income by the paragraphs, which he contributed every week to the garbage papers, which cater to an inquisitive public. If ever, far down in the turbid depths of London life, there was some strange swirl or eddy, it was marked with automatic exactness by this human dial upon the surface. Holmes discreetly helped Langdale to knowledge, and on occasion was helped in turn.
No-one was paying us the slightest attention in the general bustle to find a cab and get out of the cold air, but Holmes's voice lowered as he drew me to one side and continued. "Langdale already knows that I am as queer as a nine-bob note, but I would prefer him not to know the same about you. Nor to deduce the exact nature of our relationship, for believe me, he would. I may be a genius at observation and deduction but, when it comes to scandal and intrigue, Langdale Pike is a match even for me."
The snow had started falling again while we had been watching the ballet, and white flakes were drifting down, as fluffy and weightless as swansdown, and landing on us both. I looked at Holmes, the sharp lines of his formal attire setting off the chiselled, aquiline features that I knew as well as my own. A few flakes had settled in his black hair and, when he met my gaze impassively, I thought that he looked like a snow prince, or an envoy sent from fantastical polar lands, rather than the warm, human creature I knew and loved. I had a fleeting notion that were I to reach out and touch his cheek, I would feel cool marble under my fingertips and not warm flesh.
However, I was acutely conscious of the people milling past us, and so contented myself with saying merely, "Then I will see you at home."
"Yes. Most likely tomorrow morning, I imagine. Sleep well, my dear
Unable to stop myself, I reached over and touched his wrist gently. He glanced over at me, at the look of concern that I was sure was written across my face, and smiled faintly, covering my hand with his own and pressing it gently. We did not speak during the rest of the performance, although I vowed that when we got home I would raise the subject of Douglas Maberley with Holmes.
It may be thought impossibly naïve if I say that, even at that moment, I did not entertain the notion that Holmes's feelings for the other man may have been deeper than those of a casual affair. Holmes had declared his love for me in no uncertain terms; he had shown it by dashing across Europe and returning to London, at considerable risk to his own safety, because Mycroft's wires had at last succeeded in reaching him on his wanderings and informing him that I had lost my wife and was once more quite alone in the world.
That, in addition to dozens of small gestures that he made on a daily basis, convinced me that I had nothing to fear; a man does not go to such lengths for a passing attraction. But my heart ached for Holmes as I watched him trying to accept that one of his old lovers – a young man in the prime of life – was now dead.
After the heart-rending finale, we stood outside the Opera House, thunderous applause still ringing in our ears, and I faced Holmes.
"Shall we find a hansom cab, then?" I asked, when he made no move towards the line of cabs waiting outside the Opera House.
"For you, yes," Holmes answered. "I have one more visit I must make this evening. Alone."
"Holmes–"
"I insist, Watson. I need to pay a call on Langdale Pike."
I knew the name – Langdale Pike was Holmes's human book of reference upon all matters of social scandal. This strange, languid creature spent his waking hours in the bow window of a St. James's Street club and was the receiving station as well as the transmitter for all the gossip of the metropolis. He made, it was said, a four-figure income by the paragraphs, which he contributed every week to the garbage papers, which cater to an inquisitive public. If ever, far down in the turbid depths of London life, there was some strange swirl or eddy, it was marked with automatic exactness by this human dial upon the surface. Holmes discreetly helped Langdale to knowledge, and on occasion was helped in turn.
No-one was paying us the slightest attention in the general bustle to find a cab and get out of the cold air, but Holmes's voice lowered as he drew me to one side and continued. "Langdale already knows that I am as queer as a nine-bob note, but I would prefer him not to know the same about you. Nor to deduce the exact nature of our relationship, for believe me, he would. I may be a genius at observation and deduction but, when it comes to scandal and intrigue, Langdale Pike is a match even for me."
The snow had started falling again while we had been watching the ballet, and white flakes were drifting down, as fluffy and weightless as swansdown, and landing on us both. I looked at Holmes, the sharp lines of his formal attire setting off the chiselled, aquiline features that I knew as well as my own. A few flakes had settled in his black hair and, when he met my gaze impassively, I thought that he looked like a snow prince, or an envoy sent from fantastical polar lands, rather than the warm, human creature I knew and loved. I had a fleeting notion that were I to reach out and touch his cheek, I would feel cool marble under my fingertips and not warm flesh.
However, I was acutely conscious of the people milling past us, and so contented myself with saying merely, "Then I will see you at home."
"Yes. Most likely tomorrow morning, I imagine. Sleep well, my dear
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