-------------

Lies

 

by kdorian

-------------

 

Holmes considers me incapable of telling a convincing lie.

 

Little does he know.

 

Granted, lies of commission I do not seem to do well. Social lies, where one claims to have another engagement or some such, and everyone knows it is simply an invention for politeness sake are one thing, but calling black white I have not the art for. He does them effortlessly; it is only with the insight granted by long acquaintance that allows me to see through them on occasion.

 

But lies of omission? There the tables are turned. Holmes cannot seem to keep himself from dropping small hints, clues that not all is as it seems. Although, again, I seem to catch them when others do not. The effect of knowing him so well for so long? Or subtle teasing meant only for my understanding? I cannot see how he acts when I am not there, so I may never know. And, of course, those times he succeeds, how would I ever know? Perhaps he is better at them than I imagine.

 

Lies of omission I can do very, very well.

 

It was, I think, my training as a doctor that helped me perfect this particular art. In some ways doctors are very like priests, or barristers. We hear confessions regarding things that patients will not tell their nearest and dearest loved ones. Things that cannot be revealed, or even hinted at. And so one learns the art of the bland face, a certain obliviousness to hints by those who may suspect things the patient wishes concealed.

 

It is amazing what one can hide by the simple means of allowing others to reach the obvious, and wrong, conclusion. By never hinting that it could be anything but the truth. By, and I think this is where Holmes goes wrong, dropping the matter as if it were of no importance.

 

I cannot help but concede, however, that it is only Holmes' lessons that have sharpened this skill to the point that I can deceive Holmes himself. I certainly hope I have deceived him, and continue to do so. If he were to discover the truth, I believe that it would destroy this bond between us that has taken so many years to build.

 

He never knew the truth about my dear Mary. I pray God he never does.

 

My marriage to Mary was not the great romance I made it out to be in my writing. In truth, it was more a matter of affection and respect than any grand passion. A practical affair, which I altered in my story to be more palatable for public consumption. My dear Mary was no longer a young woman, being well into her twenties, and although still attractive her position as governess permitted her few opportunities to meet a man who might become a suitor. Her father's fortune would have remedied that, but its loss would most likely have signed her fate had I not spoken.

 

I was honest with her in regards my position. I admired her, and had come to care for her, and thought perhaps she felt the same way for me. If she would consent, perhaps we could together build this ember into a warm and comfortable fire by which to warm ourselves. She, in turn, told me she had come to regard me well during the short space of our adventure. She had no wish to remain a governess all of her life, and I was a man with a respectable profession whom she could trust to provide for her. In short, she accepted my proposal. I did not think, then, that she loved me. In hindsight, my words were not the sort to gain an admission of love from her if she did. I pray that she did not, for if she did, even merciful heaven could surely grant me no forgiveness. I see now what I would not admit to myself then. I was not so much seeking a wife as I was fleeing both Holmes, and myself.

 

We were lovers, he and I. I married to escape the temptation I faced every night when the door locked and we were alone in our apartments. My need for him was as great as my self-loathing for my unnatural urges, and the conflict within my soul was tearing me asunder. Our relationship had progressed from flat-mates to friends to a more intimate acquaintance. The knowledge that having such relations with another man was wrong did not prevent me from doing so, just as it had not before.

 

I had been aware of my perverse inclinations since I was a young man, or even a boy. There was a bit of experimentation that I carried on with other boys I knew who were as curious as I. What started as mild games as a youth became more serious as I grew older. Although I fought my urges, sooner or later I would always fall once more into an man's arms, to my, and often to his, regret. I could find no peace within myself, and often unfairly blamed those with whom I engaged in such unseemly sport. I am still shamed to this day to remember the flash of relief that accompanied my grief in Afghanistan when the man I had become 'close friends' with was killed on the battlefield.

 

I do not know how Holmes tolerated my behavior towards him; I must have acted a callous and unreliable lover. I would be one day passionate, another reproachful and silently accusing. I can only imagine how much I must have hurt him. I did not deserve the miracle of his return, but I am grateful for it. It has given me the chance to be the lover I should have been in those earlier years, and ease some of the pain I caused.

 

My marriage was a joy to me. Mary and I suited each other well, and setting up our new household frustrating and amusing by turns. Certainly it was a great deal of work. Establishing a paying practice (for I could not support a wife without one), spending time with Mary, as well as shopping for all those things that were needed for a home and my office devoured more of my time than I would have thought possible. I could not see as much of Holmes, of course, but I still managed to accompany him on many of his cases.

 

I wonder, now, if it all would have happened had Holmes been here. Certainly I could never have deceived him about the matter. But I wonder if it would have happened at all. I do not think so, myself. His death, or supposed death, was the first metaphorical stone falling that started the avalanche that buried my life.

 

I had been drawing away from Holmes, or more properly he from me. I was still his Boswell, to some degree, but his cases seemed more and more to involve foreign climes or other circumstances where I, with a wife and practice to consider, could not follow. No longer would we sit in the evening and discuss whatever matters were of interest to us. Instead, it became less of a friendship and more of a business partnership; his role to solve the puzzle that had been presented to him, and mine to stand to the side, ready to lend any support was required, and afterwards to chronicle the matter. Our relationship had lost most of its intimacy upon my marriage; not simply the physical intimacy, but the more complex intimacy of old friendship.

 

When Holmes died... I can remember stumbling away from the falls, my mind numb and confused. Holmes could not be dead. My mind simply could not conceive of the world without Holmes in it. I felt no grief, no sorrow at first, only shock and disbelief. It was beyond my power to understand. It was only later, when my mind began to understand that Holmes was _gone_, that never again would I watch him think, see his head thrown back in laughter, or hear him tell me once again that to apply his methods, that the pain began.

 

I never knew I could feel such pain. No physical wound ever did me such harm.

 

Pain and grief are thieves. They robbed me of my comfort, my sleep, my concentration, my appetite. They even robbed me of my memory. There are days that passes while I mourned that I have no memory of; gone, wiped from my mind by the haze I walked through. My world had gone gray; colorless, lifeless, and tasteless.

 

It was the depth of my grief that told me how much I had lost in losing Holmes. How much I had thrown away.

 

My marriage had been going well. My words to Mary had proven themselves accurate, for while no wild passion had risen, there was comfort and happiness in our home, and I believe even a quiet love had grown between us. But this state did not last. My mourning for Holmes was a heavier burden than I realized, and proved to much for our marriage for it to bear.

 

Mary was sympathetic and supporting of my pain at the start, but as my grief continued unabated she turned colder. I was puzzled when her words began to turn sharp. I was perhaps less the husband than I should have been, neglecting her in my mourning, but I knew no reason she should begrudge me my grief for the man she knew to be my oldest and dearest friend.

 

How and when she came to realize that Holmes and I had been more than friends I do not know. I do not believe I talk in my sleep. Perhaps it was simply that being a woman, she had a greater understanding of matters of the heart. But it was she who put a name to what I felt for Holmes.

 

That confrontation. . . I wish I was better at lying. I wish I had thought to prepare some explanation why I was mourning Holmes like a lover, not simply a friend, even a dear and old friend. The shock at what I can only see as her attack drove subterfuge from my mind. She somehow forced my confession of our true relationship. When I told

her we had been intimate, she hissed that what I meant was that I had been in love with him. Astonishment and pain wiped my mind clean. She was right; I had loved him, and he, I saw then, loved me. How could I have never have admitted it to myself while he lived?

 

How did Holmes see my marriage? He never spoke against it, save for his remark that he could not congratulate me. What a bitter pill it must have been for him to swallow. I will never know his thoughts on the matter. I have never had the courage to ask him.

 

I wonder if it is entirely coincidental that Holmes arranged his 'death' to happen when it did. My marriage was at what turned out to be its highest point, Mary and I making no secret of our devotion to each other. Holmes and I were seeing one another less and less, but I was unwilling to let him go entirely. If too long passed between cases, I would stop by and visit, having dinner with him and spending some short time talking. He only returned from his exile after Mary had passed away. Or perhaps it is merely my vanity speaking, to think I had anything to do with the timing of the entire matter.

 

I wonder still at the depth of her anger. Was it fury at discovering my hidden predilections? Anger at my deception of her? The mistaken belief that I had been unfaithful to her? Which I was not; at least, not in my actions. I cannot say now if I was faithful in my heart while Holmes lived; there was so much then that I concealed from myself. Or was it perhaps simply jealousy?

 

Mary became spiteful, or so at least it seemed to me. When we were alone, she did not hold her tongue and let the matter retreat into the past. It may not have been possible. My grief was like an open wound, a sore that tormented both of us, that would flash to vivid life when prodded.

 

And Mary did prod. For the most part I kept my temper when she berated me, for I was guilty enough of all she accused me of. Sometimes I could not, and angry words were exchanged. This ceased after one occasion when she said more than I could bear. I do not recall what started the argument, but I recall her words exactly. "Thank God," she told me, "or at least thank me, that I spared you continuing your corrupt relationship with that man." My guilt maddened me. I had abandoned my lover, leaving him to marry a woman I  had known less than a week before our engagement. I had lost Holmes and myself the little time we had left to be together, hurting him brutally in the process. This does not excuse my actions. For the first and only time, I struck my wife, slapping her across the face hard enough to knock her back against the wall.

 

Our home became a cold and bitter house. Venom flowed between Mary and myself, and I began to work late hours simply to avoid her. We now had separate bedrooms, and the ease and affection that had characterized our early married life was now only a mocking memory. Our mutual respect had been destroyed, and where once we held regard for one another, now there was only cold, angry silence.

 

Our private difficulties were at least kept private. In public, I made a habit of calling her 'my dear Mary.' It is a habit I retain to this day.

 

In my years with Holmes, I encountered many villains. But it was my dear Mary, sweet, gentle Mary who taught me what it was to truly hate. To hate with the passion that can only grow of long and intimate knowledge of the one you despise. I learned to hate then, but I do not know even now if it was her or myself I hated more.

 

My shock, on Holmes return, I have written of elsewhere. It is of more private matters I will speak of here. Astonishment is too mild a word for what I felt, and my enveloped my heart. The love I had once denied for him, and the guilt I felt, almost tore my heart in two.

 

Holmes showed no desire to resume our earlier relationship. While we once again resumed our rooms on Baker Street, we slept apart. I understood, but began to woo him. I knew it would be no easy task. Once burned is twice shy, and he was shy indeed. I am grateful that he allowed me to return to Baker Street, or my task may have proved impossible. Perhaps, all his words to the contrary, that is what he wished. Taking a former lover into one's home when one does not contemplate resuming the relationship does not seem the act of a rational man.

 

I threw myself into the task of winning him back. I did not attempt to use the typical courting moves of flowers and wine; between Holmes and myself such gestures would have been ridiculous. Instead, I did my best to show him that I had changed. I was no longer the man who had hurt him so thoughtlessly. No longer did he have cause to fear my moods. My self-deception had been conquered. I would not lie to myself, trying to make myself into the man society told me I should be. Let society see what I wished it to see; in private I would be who I wished to be. Holmes knew who I had been. I showed him who I had become.

 

It was not a swift or easy task. I had to repair the damage I had wrought. In time, I succeeded in becoming his lover again. Healing the harm I caused has taken longer. But I am steadfast, and will work for the rest of my life, and gladly, if need be. I know too well what loosing Holmes had done to me. I will not leave him again so long as we both live.

 

After my home with Mary had descended into silence and isolation, I sought a tie with Holmes the only way that was left to me. My contact with my publisher confirmed that there would indeed be a market for earlier, unpublished stories. Mary must have read my private papers, for she confronted me in a fury. I was not to write of Holmes, she forbade it. Nothing to do with 'that man' was to enter the house, and I would not publish any more of his stories. I did not bow before her storm. I would write if I wished to, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. I cannot describe the smile she gave me in reply. Of course, she said. She was only a silly woman, and who listens to the prattling of a silly woman? Even if in her foolishness she were to say something that suggested that the famous Mr. Holmes was in truth an invert. Just a little something that her husband let slip about why he left his partnership so abruptly. The sort of thing a sheltered woman might repeat, not realizing the true meaning of her husbands words.

 

I could only stare at her. She waited, that smile still on her face. After a few moments, I choked out something about returning my notes to storage. She took her victory and left me alone in my room. I did not try to write of Holmes again. No published word could spread faster than rumor, and guarding Holmes reputation was the only service I could do him. Had she followed through on her threat, everything he had been, everything he had done, would have been tainted.

 

It became an implied compromise between us. I never made mention of Holmes. My notes, and my mementos of our life together were packed away into storage. She kept her peace in public, and in our house when the maid was in. I think her time as a governess had made her aware of how much servants can overhear. I could take comfort in

protecting Holmes the only way left to me, but it seemed a hollow victory. At times I would have willingly dragged my own reputation through the mud simply to be able to look over those things that could remind me of my times with him, but I could not risk his. The pleasure of even bittersweet reminiscence was denied me, and I ached for it.

 

I lie now in Holmes arms each night. Here I have found both love and passion; here is a soul that while so unlike mine matches my needs precisely. He fills the empty places in my heart, the holes I did not even know were there. But I also recognize the irony of my position. I am the secret lover a man who loves no one; I am known for being unable to lie, and every word I write of his heart and our friendship is a deception. My late wife provides us the cover of legitimacy we need to be unsuspected. How it would enrage her.

 

Not all my words are lies. Holmes does not understand emotion near so well as he understands reason, and I thank God for that. I would be undone if he did, for I have no doubt that he would quickly unravel the reason any mention of my late wife pains me so. I am content to leave it understood that although I love him more, I did love her and loosing her still causes me pain.

 

Mary's illness came upon her suddenly. If she had any early symptoms she did not mention them to me. She asked for one of my colleagues to treat her. As her husband, she explained when he came, she was concerned that I would see what I wished to, rather than the truth. He laughed and told her he understood, and told her that it was a simple matter and she would soon be put to right. He told me much the same, in the terms of our profession, and left me with his notes on her prescription.

 

After the funeral, he apologized to me for mistaking his diagnosis. I do not think he has ever forgiven himself for his error. And I could not tell him the truth.

 

I went to my office to fill the prescription.  It was a simple matter, and he had chosen the same medicine I would have used. My office was not well-ordered, despite my nurses best efforts.  My late hours continued past the time she left in the evening, and with my deliberately exhausting schedule I was not so neat as I should have been.

 

Would that I could claim it was the devil, but it was my own hand. I picked up the wrong medicine, and when I noted my error I did not put it back. I recall thinking that if she took this instead, I would no longer be denied what little I had left of Holmes. I would no longer need to fear her harming his memory. I stood there and stared at that innocent bottle, and then I went upstairs and gave her a dose sufficient to ensure her eternal silence.

 

The next morning she was found. My shock and grief were unfeigned, but the reasons behind them were not what was assumed. I could not believe in the light of day what I had done in the night.  And as selfish as it sounds, my grief for her was not for her, but for how far I had fallen.  I had betrayed both my marriage and Hippocratic oaths. More, I had betrayed my association with Holmes, tainting the one thing that mattered more than my life. For her there was no proper grief, just a hollow place within my heart, a great empty echoing cavern where I felt only numbness.

 

I was Dr. Watson, not simply a medical man but the late Holmes' associate. Questions were not asked. The explanation of a sudden fatal illness was accepted without comment.

 

And so now I lie each night with Holmes, contemplating the murderer he has never detected.

 

*End*