FIC: "Intemperance" (2/2) Sherlock Holmes
Link to part one.
*
Three months on, Holmes seemed far too large. I interrogated him as to the exact timing of the conception.
"November, you goggling goose. I am quite sure. A year after old Blackwood died," Holmes said, waving his pipe at me.
"But how can you be sure? You drink, Holmes. You drink a great deal. I've seen you lose days--weeks! How can you be sure?"
"I am sure."
"But how can you be sure?"
"Watson, had you ever been penetrated by a man, I am quite sure you would know it on the following morning, drunk or not," Holmes said. He placed his pipe in his mouth. "I have never been taken advantage of in my various drunken stupors. I refuse to list the signs and signifiers for your greedy ears."
I dropped back into my chair. "This is not idle curiosity. Eight months gone is entirely a different case to nine."
"Trust me."
"I cannot trust you to bathe, shave, know what day it is, understand the rules of etiquette, or know that the earth goes around the sun--"
Holmes grunted. "I endeavoured to forget that! Now I shall surely recall."
"I most certainly do not trust you to time a pregnancy, not even your own!"
"Goodness. What a villain I am."
"Please do not be offended with me again."
"No. I do so love you, Watson. I can never be angry long." He blew smoke at me. "I am absolutely sure," Holmes continued. "I bleed when the moon is waning gibbous. The time of the month changes but the phase of the moon does not, not since I was twenty. I release an ovum, then, when the moon is waxing gibbous. On the full moon..." Holmes paused, sucking on his pipe. "Then I am rampantly horny, raging for a good hard fuck." He rolled the Rs around his mouth and spat them out in a cloud of smoke.
I swallowed at his crudeness. I did not like to think of him in the throes of desire. Not Holmes, with his magnificent brain.
"Have you never noticed that about the female sex, Watson? That onset of hunger and desire? I met my boxer on a full moon in November. Younger, almost a boy, slim, very clean of line and limb. He had a black eye and red knuckles. He approached me and I encouraged him, using the subtle signals of our ilk. We shared two bottles of wine in the moonlight before he submitted to my lustful desires. He thought I wanted to bugger him; he was willing, but he was relived to find it was the reverse. I think he might have known my name. I don't recall his."
"Lies," I said, my voice rough to my ears.
"Then I do not wish to recall. I leaned against the wall with my trousers still on and let him take me, in his clumsiness and youth. I may have noticed that he did not use the servant's entrance. I may not have cared, in my unholy lust. I rode him twice--no, three times--dripping with sweat and covered in his vital fluids."
He paused to smoke. His eyes were dilated. I could not have stopped him for the world. "He saw my naked body, I believe, but he was too drunk to understand. I left him before morning. When I saw him next, he sidled up to me and said, 'I can't remember half what we done, guv'nor, but I would surely like to try that once again.' I shooed him back to his young friends. I have no attachments," Holmes said. He blew a smoke ring that wreathed his face in a growing halo, then faded around me, seeming to disappear into my clothes. "And in December, waning gibbous, I did not bleed."
I inhaled sharply, shaking off his spell. "Yes," I said, my voice as rusty as if I had not used it for months. "Eight months, then."
"Precisely." Holmes bit down on his pipe and heaved himself out of his chair with both hands. He waddled to the kitchen. "It is a low carriage, that is all. Tradition says that indicates a son."
I listened to him hack at the loaf of bread. I desperately wanted a cigar.
*
As Holmes increased, so did the sheaf of pages that told the story of our meeting and first case. I marvelled again at the difference between the broken man I had been, invalided home from the war, and the man I was now; this difference, I am sure, was due to the vitality of Holmes.
He read my manuscript in secret. I would never have known, save that he left notes: "Change my physical description. I wish to be tall." I would think this vanity except, of course, that he frequently went about in disguise. It would be a great advantage if the criminal classes were looking for a tall man in their midst, rather than short. To those ends I described his phiz as thin and hawk-like, and he seemed pleased enough.
I asked Mary to proof my document with some trepidation, but she only corrected some minor errors in my spelling, and told me it was wonderful. I did not ask Holmes for his approval; the fact that the package of papers was successfully conveyed out of the house and onto the mail coach was acquiescence in itself.
*
Holmes still refused to let me examine him. "I am perfectly fine. When I need attention, I will ask for it." But I did find him listening to the baby with my stethoscope; rather, Mary did, and I found them both listening to Holmes's naked belly, transfixed by this secret internal sound. "The tiny heartbeat is faster than mine, but follows nonetheless. Not in time, but not out. It reminds me of the music of India," Holmes said.
Mary smiled at him. "You must teach the child to be musical."
Holmes stroked his stomach. "Do come in, Watson. Come hear your son."
I moved fully into the doorway. "You cannot know it is a son."
"I dearly hope it is a son. I cannot imagine what my aberrant physiology would do to a daughter." Holmes winced. "He's kicking. Cease this insolence," he said, poking his stomach.
To my delight, I saw movement from inside Holmes's body, pushing back against his hand. "An elbow, I think!" Mary cried. She leaned close and touched Holmes's belly as well.
"Yes, his feet are pointing down, judging from the--" He grunted. "Force. The young villain."
I sat on the bed. Holmes took my hand and placed it on his stomach. "Exercise your paternal authority," he said.
My eyes raked over his body, taking in as much as I could. A livid red stretch mark lashed down his abdomen, but I could do nothing about that. His colour was good. The shape of his abdomen was firm and round--and then I felt a strong movement from the child, and my mind emptied. I imagined I could feel the tiny outline of the hand through layers of skin and organ and fluid. There, the head, and there, the line of the spine, there the legs crossed and frog-like. Thin now, but becoming fat, preparing for entry into the world.
"He is restless. He feels his confinement. He is your blood, Holmes, I do not think he will listen to me," I said.
"You will have certain advantages over him you do not have over me."
I leaned in. "See here, young... child. Your behaviour is intolerable. Kindly allow Holmes to rest so that he may resume the task of feeding and nurturing you."
"Excellently done. Most patriarchal. Entirely useless, he has just punched me in the stomach."
Mary stroked Holmes's stomach, up and down, until her hand rested beside mine over the baby's head. "Shush now," she said.
The baby kicked violently. Holmes groaned. "Mercy," he said. "Please, bring me my violin."
He sat cross-legged at the head of the bed and played the baby to sleep. Mary reclined at the foot of the bed and I sat beside her, quite content.
*
My story, "A Study in Scarlet," was accepted for publication immediately, for a frankly startling amount of money.
"We were distressed to hear of the illness of Mr. Holmes. Please convey our best wishes for his health and recovery. For your part, we would be very pleased to receive more stories of Sherlock Holmes," I read out.
"Yes, but less of yourself next time, and no more Mormon stories, please," Holmes said. "My adventures are far more interesting."
"Are there any more demands?" I inquired acidly. "Shall I make you a great lover as well? Shall I devise a pirate story, or let you rescue a princess?"
"No, in fact; I am rather taken with the idea of my own Boswell. Tell the truth," he said. "Show my black moods and eccentricity so that people can no longer claim surprise."
"The truth, but not the whole truth, of course."
"I think that we have both learned that your sense of discretion is more finely honed than my own."
I agreed fully. "I think you secretly want to be discovered and exposed. You would be the scandal of the age, a new Chevalier d'Eon."
"No, indeed!" Holmes cried. "Am I a Wilde, content to quip for my dinner? I must have work, or I rot."
"I see. And yet, this reckless intemperance is ingrained in your nature."
"Were it not, you would not have a ripening son, and your stories would not have a readership," Holmes said. "The stories of your patients are only just amusing enough for the dinner table."
"You cannot be certain the child is a boy," I said.
"Of course I can," Holmes rejoined.
*
As July turned to August, I became anxious. I took any excuse to touch Holmes, checking his temperature and pulse with my forefingers, leaning close to smell him for infection or the sweat of sickness. "Holmes, I need to examine you," I said for the thousandth time at least.
Holmes reclined in the shady garden seat, in loose shirt and bare feet, eyes closed, fanning himself. The day was unusually hot, easily eighty degrees, and he felt it exceedingly. "I know my physiology far better than you, my dear fellow. I am as healthy as a yearling bull."
I supposed I could have wrestled Holmes to the ground, or stifled him with chloroform, but I did not think he would soon forgive me for such an intrusion on his person. "I understand your unwillingness, but I do not find it rational," I said. Still, I brought a basin and cloth from the kitchen, and squeezed cool water over Holmes's throat and stomach. My disapproval did not preclude me from helping him so far as he allowed.
Holmes sighed and unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes still shut. The vast mound of his stomach sat round and still; the child was asleep. His nipples were engorged, but there was still no swell of breast beneath. His self-surgery appeared to be complete. He had gained some flesh, beyond the necessary bulk of the abdomen, so that his ribs and the muscles of his chest were well hidden; still, though, when I attempted to perceive Holmes as female, I failed. I saw him only as a man in an unusual medical state.
"I should like to dig a pond and remain there like a frog for the rest of this stifling season," Holmes said. I bathed his forehead and brushed water through his thick hair.
The kitchen door opened behind us. "Sherlock," Mary said. "The butcher boy is due. You must come inside."
"Damn the butcher boy," Holmes muttered, but he opened his eyes. I stood and grasped his hands, pulling him to his feet, but he leaned on my arm and rested his cheek on my shoulder. "Carry me. I am far too somnolent to carry myself."
"If you are too ill to walk upstairs, you are too ill to refuse a physical examination," I said.
Holmes growled and stood upright. I did walk him upstairs, though, with my hand beneath his elbow. I was very afraid for him.
*
I woke up. I did not know why. The room was perfectly black with no hint of sunrise. Mary slept beside me, her breathing soft and regular.
I closed my eyes.
Then I heard a sound. Yes, indeed, a voice. "Watson, I need you," a familiar yell, but not as loud as Holmes normally managed. I climbed out of bed and felt for the matches and candle by the bed.
I stepped out into hall before I lit the candle, preferring not to wake Mary if I could help it. Holmes's door was closed fast, but I could hear him breathing heavily. "Holmes? I'm coming," I said, opening his door.
There was a heavy, animal smell in the room. Holmes's eyes flashed as the light from my candle crossed his face; he was kneeling at the foot of the bed, holding onto the iron bedstead. His long nightshirt was sodden and clung to his legs. "Good God, is the baby coming?" I asked.
Holmes nodded. He grimaced and did not speak. I found and lit the oil lamp by the door, then the candle at Holmes's bedside. "This is the end of nonsense," I said, kneeling behind him.
"I'll offer you none. This feels wrong--" He stopped as the contraction gripped him.
There was fluid soaking the bed, but I could not tell how much was blood and how much water. "Mary!" I shouted. I picked up Holmes's shoe and threw it across the hall at the door to our bedroom, where it bounced with a satisfying bang. "We need you!"
Holmes groaned loudly. I pulled up his shirt and put my hand to his bottom but could not feel the baby's head, only quite startlingly ordinary female parts. I palpated his abdomen and located the head easily, in the correct downward position, ready to be born. I pictured the risks: Haemorrhage, over-long labour, misplaced cord.
Mary emerged. "John?"
"I need light! And water!"
"Oh!" Mary ran into the room and lit the other lamp. "I'll get the lamps from downstairs. Sherlock, are you all right?"
"No!" he shouted.
I held the candle closer to the bed and did not see blood. "I can't tell. I need more light, as fast as you can, please."
I felt the contraction ripple through Holmes's abdomen. He cried out. "Watson, I shall be torn apart!"
"Not so far, old man." I rubbed his back. "I don't see any blood. Simply the curse of Eve."
Holmes bared his teeth at me, panting.
Mary returned with two lamps held carefully upright in her hands. "Oh," she said as she lit them. "No blood. You frightened the life out of me."
"My medical bag, please. It's in--"
"Yes, I know, John." She crossed back to our room, kicking Holmes's shoe out of the way as she ran. She returned with my bag and said, "I'll bring up some water and put the kettle on to boil. Don't worry, Sherlock. I'm told it's always like this."
Holmes groaned. He rested his head on his forearm. I timed his contractions with my watch and found the labour well progressed. "How long did you wait before calling me?" I asked him.
"As long as I could. It started this morning." He lost his breath at the end from another contraction.
I cleaned my speculum with white spirit and rinsed it when Mary returned with the water. "Now, you must trust me, Holmes," I said.
Holmes nodded. Mary wet a cloth and wiped his forehead. I inserted the instrument by touch; Holmes growled and said, "Help me take this off, this is--" I did not hear what it was, for his voice was choked off again. With Mary's assistance, he tugged his nightshirt off and allowed me to see his body.
Now he seemed female, quite entirely female, as I evaluated the stage of delivery. "Soon," I said. "But there is no blood, your colour is good, the child seems well placed, and the pain is ordinary."
Male above, female below, like Hermaphroditus in reverse. "Ordinary," Holmes said.
"Yes, ordinary! Your body is rearranging itself to admit the passage of a child. Of course it will hurt! But not for long. A few hours, I should judge." I relented. "Morphine is considered safe," I said.
Holmes sighed and rolled onto his side. "You might have said so earlier."
"You only called seven minutes ago," Mary said. "Can you stand? You should be more comfortable if I can remove this mess."
"I'll help you," I said. I assisted him to stand, his arms around my neck and chest, bent almost double from the regular contraction of his abdomen. Mary removed the soiled blankets to the floor and spread the bed with an oilcloth and a clean sheet; then she knelt and cleaned Holmes's legs.
"This won't do," Holmes said. He grunted against my chest as his body seized. "Take off your clothes."
"I beg your pardon?" I said.
"You, Watson. This process has been quite unequal." He gasped and continued. "You have seen too many of my secrets. Take off your clothes."
I helped Holmes back to the bed. He rested on his side, glaring angrily at me, his arms wrapped around his abdomen. I looked at Mary.
"Off!" Holmes shouted.
"Oh, for heaven's sake! You're only delaying the morphine," I said, as I pulled my pyjama shirt over my head. "You have seen me nude a great many times! You never respected the privacy of the bath," I nearly shouted, unbuttoning my pyjama trousers. "Here. A naturist birth. You are the most absurd creature, Holmes." I knelt, feeling draughty and ridiculous, and retrieved the morphia and syringe from my bag.
I gave him a small dose, to avoid as much harm as possible to the child. There was a small risk with morphine that the child would emerge sleepy and sedated. Holmes had refrained from his usual vices of alcohol, morphine, and cocaine during his pregnancy, so I would not have to give him the monstrous doses I had become accustomed to. Holmes sighed with relief and said, "Yes, I can still feel it, but I no longer feel like I shall shortly die."
"Good," I said. I felt for the position of the child.
"Sit up," Mary said. "Here, lean against me." She sat against the headboard. Holmes willingly crawled into her arms. Mary passed her eyes over me with evident amusement, but made no comment.
"The mouth of your womb is normally tightly shut," I began to explain.
"Yes! I read your books as well. I know what is happening. No more impudent discussion of my womb; I do not wish to hear it."
"You're doing very well," I said, and in fact said very little else but that during the next few hours.
As the night greyed into dawn we felt a change; the shape of Holmes's belly altered and his grunts seemed more focused. Holmes knelt on the bed, Mary beside him, myself behind him, and with a great many howls, he bore down and pushed the child into the world.
"A boy," I said. "A well formed boy!" I rubbed a cloth over his face and listened to his chest for the crucial first breath. He took it. He was alive!
"Holmes! A boy!" I cried again as the baby wailed.
Holmes, prostrate against the mattress, said "Splendid," without much enthusiasm.
Mary, to my very great astonishment, stripped out of her nightgown and used it to wipe the baby clean. "One more push, old man, to expel the placenta, and then you're done," I told him. Holmes moaned piteously but followed my instruction.
Then the four of us, exhausted, soiled, and nude, rested in the golden glow of the morning light. I may have slept. I opened my eyes to find Holmes examining the infant boy as he lay curled on Mary's breast. "John," he said, "I do hope his head will not always look like this."
I laughed; then I pulled his thighs open and checked him for bleeding. "Insolent lout!" Holmes cried, slapping me away.
"What an excellent doctor I am," I said, still laughing, or perhaps one might say giggling. "Such a great doctor that I can bring a man to child-bed and he emerges unscathed! You aren't even torn, Holmes."
"I shall have to burn these bedclothes and buy new. I have no notion how to clean them in secret," Mary said, and sighed. "And the boy has excused himself. So much to do!" She stood with the baby in her arms and her hair falling across her shoulders. She was sublimely beautiful.
Holmes was already asleep again, his work complete.
*
I was despatched to the village for more milk and sugar. Holmes, of course, lacking any breast tissue, was unable to feed the child, but we were fully versed in the most modern, scientific infant formulas.
When I returned, I found Holmes dressed in a clean night-shirt, resting in our bed, and Mary sitting beside him, fully dressed, with the baby. I sat beside her and touched the baby's cheek. I was amazed, again, at the smallness of newborns.
"What shall we name him?" Mary asked.
"Sherlock," Holmes said. "An excellent name."
"I would prefer to be slightly more discreet," Mary said, smiling.
"Hamish," I suggested. My full name is John Hamish Watson.
"No, dear, indeed," Mary said.
We all regarded the baby. He was a healthy size, roughly seven pounds, with the characteristic misshapen head of the newly born, a great deal of brown hair, vague blue eyes, tender pink skin, and very little else in the way of distinguishing features. He had a full complement of limbs and digits and a cleanly cut umbilical stump. "Plato," Holmes said.
"I refuse," I said.
"Isaac," Holmes said.
"For Newton?"
"Of course. Or Antoine."
"We are not French."
"For Lavoisier," Holmes said impatiently.
"My father's name is Aloysius, but he is certain not to approve of our adoption of a foundling child," Mary said.
"Mine was Hamish. I don't see what's wrong with it."
Mary only smiled at me. "I'd rather not, dear."
"If he is a foundling, name him Moses," Holmes said.
"We are not Jews, either," I said.
"It occurs to me..." Mary said. "My great-uncle Horace, my favourite relation. He is the reason I insisted on having a profession. He used to tell me stories of his travels in Europe and North America. He was an actor, not entirely respectable; my father only allowed me near him because he was a valetudinarian and, my father thought, past all corrupting influence. He was a lifelong bachelor. He must have been a lover of men, now that I understand about that sort of thing; he died when I was fourteen, so I never had the chance to ask. He would find this entire situation a delight."
"Delight! An excellent emotion," Holmes said.
"Horace Watson?" I said.
"Horace Hamish Watson," Mary replied.
"No," I said. "Horace Morstan Watson."
"Horace Sherlock Watson," Holmes interjected.
"Holmes, his origin is meant to be a secret, you imbecile," I said.
*
When Holmes emerged from bed, he leapt into action once again--quite ill-advisedly. "I am offensively weak!" he shouted at me when I ventured into the garden. He lifted two rocks in his hands, over and over.
"Sit down before you collapse," I told him.
"Never again!" Holmes declared.
I stopped his action with a sharp rap to each wrist, so that he dropped the stones. In return, he nutted me. We grappled across the garden like schoolboys. He was, in fact, much weaker since his confinement, but his dirty tactics left me face-down in the dirt with his knees strangling my throat and my shin pinned in his arms. I expected any moment to feel his teeth in my ankle, but instead he rolled off me, panting. He held both hands to his shrinking but still prominent belly.
I wiped the dirt from my moustache. "If you have harmed yourself, I have no sympathy whatever," I said.
"I must begin a strict regimen. Heaven only knows what my enemies have been doing in my absence." Holmes tucked his hands beside his head and attempted a handstand from his supine position; he got as far as bringing his knees over his head before I rolled to my feet and grabbed his ankles, trapping him in a curled pose. "Watson, you annoy me," Holmes said.
"That is my role in life, I confess. You must rest or risk damage." I stepped backwards, forcing him to uncurl.
"Bosh."
"Holmes, I love you dearly," I said, which at least held his attention. "You have just given birth. You are still bleeding. Yes, you tried to hide it, but I am a doctor and I know how the body works. Your organs are cramped and disordered. You must be gentle with yourself or infection and injury may result."
"I am no delicate English rose," Holmes said.
"As you have told me, over and over again. And I repeat: You are human."
There was a very queer look on Holmes's face. I felt him relent in my hands, and relax upon the ground. Rather than picking him up, I reclined beside him and placed my hand over his heart. He covered my hand with his own. He was hale, vital, his pulse strong and slow.
"I did wonder, from time to time, whether your concern was on behalf of the child, or me, or of overweening medical curiosity," Holmes said.
"The child is a stranger, newly arrived from an unknown land. You are Holmes," I said. "You are quite right. The pregnancy did rob your mental faculties." I rubbed his chest.
Holmes closed his eyes. "I am bleeding, yes, in a way. It has turned to brown muck. Quite disgusting, but normal."
"Yes," I said, satisfied. I rested my head on my arm and basked in the August sun. Before long, Holmes's head lolled to one side. He was asleep. I carried him inside to the sofa.
*
By September, Holmes was able to fit into his customary wardrobe. We walked to the village arm in arm. "What a lovely place this is," he said.
"Yes. A pity you weren't able to enjoy it."
"I'm enjoying it now."
One of Holmes's small helpers saw us. "Mr. Holmes! Is that Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
"It is," Holmes said.
But another child elbowed the first. "It never! Look at the picture!" They consulted the magazine.
"Our ruse may have backfired," I said to Holmes.
"Nonsense! This is the precise reaction I intended."
"But he paid me to collect weeds. A whole shilling!" the first boy said.
"The other one could be Holmes. He's taller," the second boy said.
The first boy cuffed him across the head. "That's Dr. Watson!" They scuffled briefly.
"Good heavens, boys! How can I solve this conundrum? I am who I say I am, but how am I to prove it?" Holmes asked them.
The boys looked at him carefully. "What kind of dog do I have?" asked the first boy.
"A prime ratting terrier, wire-haired."
"What does my father do?" asked the second boy.
"He is the dry goods merchant."
"How old am I?" asked the first boy.
"Eight--and your birthday is in March."
"What's my name?" asked the second boy, wide-eyed.
"Oscar Taylor," Holmes answered.
Both boys gasped. "Mr. Holmes!" They both ran to the public house, crying "Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes is here!"
Holmes smiled at me. "I shall enjoy this," he said.
*
When Holmes was able to travel, we secreted the baby in a basket and moved into the city of Bournemouth. We took rooms in a hotel, aired the infant in public, and, most importantly, christened him.
"You will be the godfather, Holmes."
"I don't believe in any such--"
I cut him off with a vicious pinch to the ear. "Holmes. You are coming; you are behaving; you are vowing to look over this infant; or God help me, I shall visit upon you such tortures as the Empire has never seen."
Holmes looked at me. "My dear fellow!"
"Do not try me."
"Mary!" Holmes cried.
"Oh, I will help him," Mary said.
"I see," Holmes said. "I am pressed like a grape. Let me put on a tie."
So, to my very great joy, Holmes stood beside us as we christened the child Horace Hamish Morstan Watson. He promised to walk with the child and help him. It felt very queer to stand before the church with the secret of Horace's birth concealed between the three of us, but in the end, what did it matter? He had three parents to care for him rather than two. He was an extraordinarily lucky child.
Then we returned to London. It was the first week of September and the air was turning crisp. I found my house very clean and pleasant, well kept despite our long absence, and made Elsie the present of a sovereign for her troubles, the last draught on Holmes's funds.
It was time to part.
Holmes held Horace in his arms. If he had baulked, I could not have blamed him, though of course it would have been a great upheaval of our plans.
"Well, then," Holmes said, finally, and handed Horace to me. "Well. Better you than me."
He donned his hat and departed.
*
I did not know how long it would be until I heard from Holmes again. As it turned out, it was only twelve hours before I received a message from him.
There was a knock at the front door in the black hours before dawn. I heard and responded from my bedroom at the same time as the maid. "Go back to bed, Elsie," I said quietly. "No doubt it is a patient. Listen for Horace if he cries."
"Yes, sir," she said, and retreated upstairs.
I unlocked the door and found a veiled lady without. A hired coach waited in the street. "May I help you?"
She offered me a handkerchief. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes sends his regards and asks that you treat this poor boy." It was my handkerchief.
"Of course," I said. I ventured out to the coach in my dressing gown and slippers. "What has happened?"
The coach door was open. A man stepped out, carrying a young man in late adolescence. It was clear, even in the darkness, that he was bleeding profusely from his arm. "You should have brought him to hospital, not to me!" I said.
"Please," the lady said.
"Bring him inside as fast as you can!" I ran to the man and raised the boy's arm over his head to attempt to stem the flow of blood.
The boy was very pale. He was bleeding from a knife wound high up on the inside of his arm. I cut away his clothing, instructing the attending man to hold his arm high.
"John," Mary said. I did not turn away from my patient. "How can I help?"
"I need silk, as fine as possible. Silk thread. I must repair the damage or this boy will lose his arm."
Mary found the silk suturing material as I sponged away the blood with white spirit and cleaned out the wound. The boy was unconscious. A blessing for him, as it would spare him pain, but a bad sign medically.
She set needle and thread beside me on the table. "Soak it well in white spirit while I wash my hands," I instructed her. I kept a quantity of strong soap and boiled water in my surgery for this purpose. I had seen the effects of proper hygiene in the field in Afghanistan and believed fully in the precepts of antisepsis.
Sewing the boy's wound was messy work, but I worked quickly and neatly and the boy still breathed by the end, so I considered the job well done. "I see Sherlock was right," the lady said. Her servant gathered up the discarded clothing as I cut it from his body.
"If infection sets in he will lose the arm. But I have done my best," I said. I cleaned the blood from the wound, dressed it, and looked for other injuries. He seemed unmarked. "He's young and strong. If he lasts the night, he will live." I knew this much from war.
"He will live, then," the lady said.
"Pardon me, but are you friends of Sherlock Holmes?" Mary asked.
"Indeed. I go by Georgiana." He drew the veil from his face.
"Oh, dear GOD!" I cried. I sat down behind my desk.
Georgiana raised his painted eyebrow. His massive servant frowned.
"It is not a condemnation," I assured him quickly. "But if I cannot tell male from female, it does rather lead me to question my skill."
Georgiana smiled. He wore cosmetics like a female, but his face bore the unmistakeable masculine stamp. "The young man is the Baron of S--," he said. "You see I could not bring him to the attention of the authorities. Exposure, disgrace, and ruination would result." He stroked the young man's hair back from his forehead and spoke to his servant in French.
Mary also spoke in the same language. "I'm asking Bruno to carry him to our bed, John," she told me. "I am quite awake. It's past four o'clock."
Georgiana left the boy with us. We took turns sitting with him, but he did not wake all day. Holmes stopped by at dusk. "The man who stabbed him is dead," Holmes told me. "He fell off a building."
I looked at him. "Is this a confession?" I asked.
"No, indeed. I would have preferred to catch him alive. As it is, I had to track down his hiding place on my own." Holmes produced a large packet of letters from his inside pocket. "He was a blackmailer. He was in the process of stealing the young man's letters, and his watch to boot, when the lad caught him."
"In a molly-house?" I asked.
"In a salon where gentleman of like interests meet one another," Holmes said, with precise delicacy.
"Oh, I see. You were a guest, therefore it was quite genteel."
Holmes sniffed. He glanced inside the open letters, one by one, and then carefully burned them.
"Forgive me," I said. "There's no shame in gentlemen meeting each other. I'm too used to treating the subject with schoolboy levity. The young man was searching for love, and that is not at all funny."
Holmes held up a letter as it burned. "Yes, perhaps. I was searching for a well-salted pickle, though, to add savour to my mutton."
I laughed, too loud; I stifled myself to avoid disturbing the boy in the bed. Holmes splayed his legs and wagged his knee lasciviously as he lounged by the fire. "I was too long in the country. I ache for a firm hand and a firmer rod."
"Mind your tongue or I'll tawse you myself. This is a sickroom, Holmes."
Holmes smiled sardonically. He carefully laid the last two letters on the fire. "It should be safe to return the Baron to his home. He was waylaid by a ruffian and treated by a respectable doctor. Any further details are concealed by discreet tongues, ashes, and the grave."
"Very well. Once he wakes up, then." I checked my watch. "Will you dine with us?"
"Dine?" Holmes's stomach roiled audibly as he spoke. "Ah, yes. I suppose one must eat at least once a week."
He was back to normal, then.
*
Elsie called us up to the sick room as we concluded dinner, Holmes and Mary and I lingering over the wine. "Dr. Watson, the young man is awake."
Both Mary and Holmes were interested in the Baron's well-being, but I left them outside the door as I checked his vitals. He was very pale indeed, and his pulse weak, but his temperature was good and the knife wound showed no more than usual inflammation. There was no smell or discharge to indicate infection. "I'm Doctor John Watson," I told him. "You're Lord S--, I believe? You were stabbed, but you will recover."
"Doctor...?" he breathed. He looked around the room with confusion. "Where am I?"
"My house. My bed, in fact. We'll soon remove you home."
"My apologies," he said. He seemed to regain more of his senses. "Yes... yes, I am Lord S--. Who... how did I come here?"
He tried to sit up. I pushed him firmly down. "If you raise your head above your heart, you may faint. You lost an enormous amount of blood and it will take three to four weeks to fully recover. For now, it is essential that you rest."
Holmes, it seemed, had reached the end of his patience, and opened the door. "Ah! Young Billy. I told old Georgiana to bring you here, for I knew I could trust my intimate friend. Your letters are entirely safe."
The young man's eyes widened. His pulse leaped against my hand and he fainted dead away. "This is why I left you outside, Holmes," I told him. I lifted the Baron's legs onto a pillow. Mary provided me with aromatic vinegar and I revived him again.
The Baron's eyes fluttered open again. "Sir, I think you have the advantage of me," he said weakly.
"Sherlock Holmes, fellow wearer of the green carnation. You're entirely safe. Georgiana is a lifelong friend." Holmes patted the boy's cheek. "I'll send for your carriage."
*
The Baron possessed a large four-wheeled carriage, a great deal of footmen, and a worried sister, all of whom save the carriage and horses poured into my small house. I was able to exercise enough authority to keep the Baron from walking out, though, and we carried him home in the extraordinary manner demanded by his condition: Resting on his back, with his head in Holmes's lap and his legs raised to the level of my shoulders. I could have positioned us in the reverse, of course, but from the look on the young man's face when he gazed upon Holmes, I thought he would rather enjoy my friend's lap.
I promised to return daily to examine the wound and received payment significantly in excess of what I would have charged him. In all, a highly satisfactory case, and I told Holmes so.
"Excellent," he replied. "I shall send you all my disreputable acquaintances."
*
I was at work in my consulting room when the maid knocked. "Mr. Mycroft Holmes to see you, sir," she said.
"Yes, of course, show him in," I said, but when she turned, Mycroft Holmes's vast bulk already loomed behind her.
"Kindly dismiss your maid," Mycroft Holmes said. He seated himself by the fire. I had met him only twice before, but I knew enough to be wary of him, and to follow his demands.
"Mr. Holmes likes his privacy, Elsie. One hour. Do what you like."
"Yes, sir," she said, bobbing nervously. She left.
Mycroft Holmes was the only man Sherlock would concede as more intelligent than himself. He did look the part. His hair was an iron grey, oiled severely back from a large dome of forehead. Unlike Sherlock, he was enormously fat. As a doctor I would judge him unwell, if not actively suffering. Between his florid complexion and his short breath, I would not be surprised if he had frequent palpitations of the heart. "Doctor!" Mycroft Holmes said sharply. "Cease your diagnosis."
"Do excuse me. Sheer habit in my consulting room. May I offer you some tea? A sherry?"
"No."
"I presume you came to see the child," I said.
"Yes."
"Certainly. You are nearly family. A moment, please, while I locate my wife."
"She's in the drawing room, of course," Mycroft Holmes said irritably.
Mary was in the drawing room with Horace, working on a tiny bonnet. "Would you join us in my study, dearest? Mycroft Holmes has called."
"Of course. I am on fire to meet him," Mary said, dropping the bonnet and gathering Horace into her arms.
Mycroft Holmes tapped his lower lip when we entered. "Your maid is too honest. She oils your books and straightens your pills. She has a secret. A natural child, her shame. When my brother calls she nearly shatters with nerves. Keep her; she will never cheat you, and you may pay her nothing."
"We may double her wages, then," Mary said. "It is so good to meet you, Mr. Holmes." She passed Horace into Mycroft Holmes's arms.
Mycroft Holmes examined Horace briefly. "Yes, he has the Holmes eyes. His colouring will darken. He will not resemble you."
"How fortunate that we are not lying about his provenance," Mary replied. Mycroft Holmes cast a sharp eye over her. "Only lies of omission," she amended.
"I see you are fully aware of my brother's unique condition."
"I was present at the birth."
"You are an acceptable mother." Mycroft Holmes handed Horace back to her. "You are offended. Don't be. It is a compliment. I have arranged for a substantial sum to come to your sole control, Mrs. Watson. It will pay for a first class education for the child. Room and board will be provided if necessary. Say nothing, Dr. Watson," he said, looking at me. "You are a gamester and unreliable with money. The child must want for nothing. If I die without issue, as seems likely, he will be my heir. Whether he is heir to my work as well, we shall see."
"Or your brother's work," I said.
Mycroft Holmes snorted throatily. "Solving petty crimes. What a waste. Still, as a girl he was far worse. An embarrassment. As a man, he is a credit to the family name, even if he is wasting his full potential."
"Sherlock has helped a great many people," I said.
Mycroft Holmes looked at me. His eyes were black and bottomless, not malevolent, but cold. "Just so," he said. "Congratulations on the birth of your son, Doctor, Mrs. Watson. I take my leave. I doubt we will meet again."
"You are quite welcome here," I said.
Mycroft Holmes left without a further word.
"I believe we have survived the Inquisition, Mary," I said.
"You will learn more pleasing manners or I shall box your ears," Mary whispered to Horace.
*
Some few days later, I visited Holmes at Baker Street. I found the door locked. "Holmes! It's Watson."
I heard a brief pause behind the door, which doubtless indicated Holmes was extricating himself from some arcane and dangerous experiment. "Don't you have a key, old dog?" Holmes said through the door as he unlocked it.
"Not on me. And I fear what I may walk into, from long experience," I told him. I found Holmes in his dressing gown and nothing else. I closed the door securely before I showed him the letters I had brought. "Billets-doux from the Baron. Two of them." I fanned the letters between my fingers.
"Two letters in three days?"
"He is quite desperately in love with his gallant rescuer."
"How unfortunate," Holmes said, but he took the letters. "Does he expect a reply?"
"He hopes for one. I am happy to carry it; I see him daily. He's healing well."
Holmes set the letters on his desk, beside the face-down portrait of Mrs. Adler, and dropped his dressing gown. He stood in front of the mirror mother-naked.
"I see you have overcome your shyness before me," I said.
"My hips have spread. Do I appear male to you?" He frowned intently at his reflection.
I drew closer, resting my hand on his strong shoulder. "You do not seem female." I could see the rounded curve of his belly, though, quite different from the hard ridges of muscle he had had before the pregnancy. The angry red lashes of stretch marks crossed up the seam of his abdomen.
"My trousers do not fit well. I'm no longer so lean." He shifted, cocking his hip to the side. The thick black curls between his legs hid any external sign of his female organs. He was rounded in the hips, but not Rubenesque by any yardstick. I had seen young men with much finer, fatter bottoms than his.
"You appear male," I told him, quite honestly. "A man with a deeply unfortunate amputation and some unusual scars, but male. Even from this distance."
"We both know you are no judge."
I sighed and slapped his naked backside. "Put your clothes on, you preening Narcissus. Go make love to your admirer."
Holmes picked up his dressing gown. "I never make love. I find, fuck, and flee."
"Maybe you should change your game. Marriage is wonderful," I said, crossing my hands over my heart like a music hall actor. Holmes rolled his eyes as he tied his belt. "But you have had such a difficult road, my dear friend; I want you to find happiness."
He took my face in his hands. "As long as I have you to cluck over me, how could I be discontent?" He kissed my lips.
"Call on the Baron," I told him.
"Yes, yes, all right," Holmes said. He patted my cheek.
*
When Horace learned to walk, I summoned Holmes immediately to show him my son's achievement. Horace raced from chair to my knee to Gladstone's stolid face with wild abandon. "Only a year old!" I said proudly.
"Ah," Holmes said. We both watched Horace as he came to rest at my feet, engrossed in the shine of my shoes. "How long is my interest meant to last?"
"Some twenty to forty years," I said.
"Well, I'll leave you to it." Holmes grimaced and clapped me on the shoulder. "There's been a wonderfully intricate murder on Fleet Street. I'm going to examine the floorboards."
"I can't join you. I have patients this afternoon."
"Very well, then. I'll borrow your wife," Holmes said.
"You shall not, sir!" But he had already left me, bounding up the stairs to my bedchamber. "Holmes! You may not!"
Thus I was left holding the baby as Holmes and my wife shouldered past me. "I'll be home in time for dinner, John," Mary said, pinning her hat into place. She kissed Horace's cheek.
"I forbid it!"
"Goodnight, John!" Mary cried, disappearing down the stairs.
*
the end.
*
Three months on, Holmes seemed far too large. I interrogated him as to the exact timing of the conception.
"November, you goggling goose. I am quite sure. A year after old Blackwood died," Holmes said, waving his pipe at me.
"But how can you be sure? You drink, Holmes. You drink a great deal. I've seen you lose days--weeks! How can you be sure?"
"I am sure."
"But how can you be sure?"
"Watson, had you ever been penetrated by a man, I am quite sure you would know it on the following morning, drunk or not," Holmes said. He placed his pipe in his mouth. "I have never been taken advantage of in my various drunken stupors. I refuse to list the signs and signifiers for your greedy ears."
I dropped back into my chair. "This is not idle curiosity. Eight months gone is entirely a different case to nine."
"Trust me."
"I cannot trust you to bathe, shave, know what day it is, understand the rules of etiquette, or know that the earth goes around the sun--"
Holmes grunted. "I endeavoured to forget that! Now I shall surely recall."
"I most certainly do not trust you to time a pregnancy, not even your own!"
"Goodness. What a villain I am."
"Please do not be offended with me again."
"No. I do so love you, Watson. I can never be angry long." He blew smoke at me. "I am absolutely sure," Holmes continued. "I bleed when the moon is waning gibbous. The time of the month changes but the phase of the moon does not, not since I was twenty. I release an ovum, then, when the moon is waxing gibbous. On the full moon..." Holmes paused, sucking on his pipe. "Then I am rampantly horny, raging for a good hard fuck." He rolled the Rs around his mouth and spat them out in a cloud of smoke.
I swallowed at his crudeness. I did not like to think of him in the throes of desire. Not Holmes, with his magnificent brain.
"Have you never noticed that about the female sex, Watson? That onset of hunger and desire? I met my boxer on a full moon in November. Younger, almost a boy, slim, very clean of line and limb. He had a black eye and red knuckles. He approached me and I encouraged him, using the subtle signals of our ilk. We shared two bottles of wine in the moonlight before he submitted to my lustful desires. He thought I wanted to bugger him; he was willing, but he was relived to find it was the reverse. I think he might have known my name. I don't recall his."
"Lies," I said, my voice rough to my ears.
"Then I do not wish to recall. I leaned against the wall with my trousers still on and let him take me, in his clumsiness and youth. I may have noticed that he did not use the servant's entrance. I may not have cared, in my unholy lust. I rode him twice--no, three times--dripping with sweat and covered in his vital fluids."
He paused to smoke. His eyes were dilated. I could not have stopped him for the world. "He saw my naked body, I believe, but he was too drunk to understand. I left him before morning. When I saw him next, he sidled up to me and said, 'I can't remember half what we done, guv'nor, but I would surely like to try that once again.' I shooed him back to his young friends. I have no attachments," Holmes said. He blew a smoke ring that wreathed his face in a growing halo, then faded around me, seeming to disappear into my clothes. "And in December, waning gibbous, I did not bleed."
I inhaled sharply, shaking off his spell. "Yes," I said, my voice as rusty as if I had not used it for months. "Eight months, then."
"Precisely." Holmes bit down on his pipe and heaved himself out of his chair with both hands. He waddled to the kitchen. "It is a low carriage, that is all. Tradition says that indicates a son."
I listened to him hack at the loaf of bread. I desperately wanted a cigar.
*
As Holmes increased, so did the sheaf of pages that told the story of our meeting and first case. I marvelled again at the difference between the broken man I had been, invalided home from the war, and the man I was now; this difference, I am sure, was due to the vitality of Holmes.
He read my manuscript in secret. I would never have known, save that he left notes: "Change my physical description. I wish to be tall." I would think this vanity except, of course, that he frequently went about in disguise. It would be a great advantage if the criminal classes were looking for a tall man in their midst, rather than short. To those ends I described his phiz as thin and hawk-like, and he seemed pleased enough.
I asked Mary to proof my document with some trepidation, but she only corrected some minor errors in my spelling, and told me it was wonderful. I did not ask Holmes for his approval; the fact that the package of papers was successfully conveyed out of the house and onto the mail coach was acquiescence in itself.
*
Holmes still refused to let me examine him. "I am perfectly fine. When I need attention, I will ask for it." But I did find him listening to the baby with my stethoscope; rather, Mary did, and I found them both listening to Holmes's naked belly, transfixed by this secret internal sound. "The tiny heartbeat is faster than mine, but follows nonetheless. Not in time, but not out. It reminds me of the music of India," Holmes said.
Mary smiled at him. "You must teach the child to be musical."
Holmes stroked his stomach. "Do come in, Watson. Come hear your son."
I moved fully into the doorway. "You cannot know it is a son."
"I dearly hope it is a son. I cannot imagine what my aberrant physiology would do to a daughter." Holmes winced. "He's kicking. Cease this insolence," he said, poking his stomach.
To my delight, I saw movement from inside Holmes's body, pushing back against his hand. "An elbow, I think!" Mary cried. She leaned close and touched Holmes's belly as well.
"Yes, his feet are pointing down, judging from the--" He grunted. "Force. The young villain."
I sat on the bed. Holmes took my hand and placed it on his stomach. "Exercise your paternal authority," he said.
My eyes raked over his body, taking in as much as I could. A livid red stretch mark lashed down his abdomen, but I could do nothing about that. His colour was good. The shape of his abdomen was firm and round--and then I felt a strong movement from the child, and my mind emptied. I imagined I could feel the tiny outline of the hand through layers of skin and organ and fluid. There, the head, and there, the line of the spine, there the legs crossed and frog-like. Thin now, but becoming fat, preparing for entry into the world.
"He is restless. He feels his confinement. He is your blood, Holmes, I do not think he will listen to me," I said.
"You will have certain advantages over him you do not have over me."
I leaned in. "See here, young... child. Your behaviour is intolerable. Kindly allow Holmes to rest so that he may resume the task of feeding and nurturing you."
"Excellently done. Most patriarchal. Entirely useless, he has just punched me in the stomach."
Mary stroked Holmes's stomach, up and down, until her hand rested beside mine over the baby's head. "Shush now," she said.
The baby kicked violently. Holmes groaned. "Mercy," he said. "Please, bring me my violin."
He sat cross-legged at the head of the bed and played the baby to sleep. Mary reclined at the foot of the bed and I sat beside her, quite content.
*
My story, "A Study in Scarlet," was accepted for publication immediately, for a frankly startling amount of money.
"We were distressed to hear of the illness of Mr. Holmes. Please convey our best wishes for his health and recovery. For your part, we would be very pleased to receive more stories of Sherlock Holmes," I read out.
"Yes, but less of yourself next time, and no more Mormon stories, please," Holmes said. "My adventures are far more interesting."
"Are there any more demands?" I inquired acidly. "Shall I make you a great lover as well? Shall I devise a pirate story, or let you rescue a princess?"
"No, in fact; I am rather taken with the idea of my own Boswell. Tell the truth," he said. "Show my black moods and eccentricity so that people can no longer claim surprise."
"The truth, but not the whole truth, of course."
"I think that we have both learned that your sense of discretion is more finely honed than my own."
I agreed fully. "I think you secretly want to be discovered and exposed. You would be the scandal of the age, a new Chevalier d'Eon."
"No, indeed!" Holmes cried. "Am I a Wilde, content to quip for my dinner? I must have work, or I rot."
"I see. And yet, this reckless intemperance is ingrained in your nature."
"Were it not, you would not have a ripening son, and your stories would not have a readership," Holmes said. "The stories of your patients are only just amusing enough for the dinner table."
"You cannot be certain the child is a boy," I said.
"Of course I can," Holmes rejoined.
*
As July turned to August, I became anxious. I took any excuse to touch Holmes, checking his temperature and pulse with my forefingers, leaning close to smell him for infection or the sweat of sickness. "Holmes, I need to examine you," I said for the thousandth time at least.
Holmes reclined in the shady garden seat, in loose shirt and bare feet, eyes closed, fanning himself. The day was unusually hot, easily eighty degrees, and he felt it exceedingly. "I know my physiology far better than you, my dear fellow. I am as healthy as a yearling bull."
I supposed I could have wrestled Holmes to the ground, or stifled him with chloroform, but I did not think he would soon forgive me for such an intrusion on his person. "I understand your unwillingness, but I do not find it rational," I said. Still, I brought a basin and cloth from the kitchen, and squeezed cool water over Holmes's throat and stomach. My disapproval did not preclude me from helping him so far as he allowed.
Holmes sighed and unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes still shut. The vast mound of his stomach sat round and still; the child was asleep. His nipples were engorged, but there was still no swell of breast beneath. His self-surgery appeared to be complete. He had gained some flesh, beyond the necessary bulk of the abdomen, so that his ribs and the muscles of his chest were well hidden; still, though, when I attempted to perceive Holmes as female, I failed. I saw him only as a man in an unusual medical state.
"I should like to dig a pond and remain there like a frog for the rest of this stifling season," Holmes said. I bathed his forehead and brushed water through his thick hair.
The kitchen door opened behind us. "Sherlock," Mary said. "The butcher boy is due. You must come inside."
"Damn the butcher boy," Holmes muttered, but he opened his eyes. I stood and grasped his hands, pulling him to his feet, but he leaned on my arm and rested his cheek on my shoulder. "Carry me. I am far too somnolent to carry myself."
"If you are too ill to walk upstairs, you are too ill to refuse a physical examination," I said.
Holmes growled and stood upright. I did walk him upstairs, though, with my hand beneath his elbow. I was very afraid for him.
*
I woke up. I did not know why. The room was perfectly black with no hint of sunrise. Mary slept beside me, her breathing soft and regular.
I closed my eyes.
Then I heard a sound. Yes, indeed, a voice. "Watson, I need you," a familiar yell, but not as loud as Holmes normally managed. I climbed out of bed and felt for the matches and candle by the bed.
I stepped out into hall before I lit the candle, preferring not to wake Mary if I could help it. Holmes's door was closed fast, but I could hear him breathing heavily. "Holmes? I'm coming," I said, opening his door.
There was a heavy, animal smell in the room. Holmes's eyes flashed as the light from my candle crossed his face; he was kneeling at the foot of the bed, holding onto the iron bedstead. His long nightshirt was sodden and clung to his legs. "Good God, is the baby coming?" I asked.
Holmes nodded. He grimaced and did not speak. I found and lit the oil lamp by the door, then the candle at Holmes's bedside. "This is the end of nonsense," I said, kneeling behind him.
"I'll offer you none. This feels wrong--" He stopped as the contraction gripped him.
There was fluid soaking the bed, but I could not tell how much was blood and how much water. "Mary!" I shouted. I picked up Holmes's shoe and threw it across the hall at the door to our bedroom, where it bounced with a satisfying bang. "We need you!"
Holmes groaned loudly. I pulled up his shirt and put my hand to his bottom but could not feel the baby's head, only quite startlingly ordinary female parts. I palpated his abdomen and located the head easily, in the correct downward position, ready to be born. I pictured the risks: Haemorrhage, over-long labour, misplaced cord.
Mary emerged. "John?"
"I need light! And water!"
"Oh!" Mary ran into the room and lit the other lamp. "I'll get the lamps from downstairs. Sherlock, are you all right?"
"No!" he shouted.
I held the candle closer to the bed and did not see blood. "I can't tell. I need more light, as fast as you can, please."
I felt the contraction ripple through Holmes's abdomen. He cried out. "Watson, I shall be torn apart!"
"Not so far, old man." I rubbed his back. "I don't see any blood. Simply the curse of Eve."
Holmes bared his teeth at me, panting.
Mary returned with two lamps held carefully upright in her hands. "Oh," she said as she lit them. "No blood. You frightened the life out of me."
"My medical bag, please. It's in--"
"Yes, I know, John." She crossed back to our room, kicking Holmes's shoe out of the way as she ran. She returned with my bag and said, "I'll bring up some water and put the kettle on to boil. Don't worry, Sherlock. I'm told it's always like this."
Holmes groaned. He rested his head on his forearm. I timed his contractions with my watch and found the labour well progressed. "How long did you wait before calling me?" I asked him.
"As long as I could. It started this morning." He lost his breath at the end from another contraction.
I cleaned my speculum with white spirit and rinsed it when Mary returned with the water. "Now, you must trust me, Holmes," I said.
Holmes nodded. Mary wet a cloth and wiped his forehead. I inserted the instrument by touch; Holmes growled and said, "Help me take this off, this is--" I did not hear what it was, for his voice was choked off again. With Mary's assistance, he tugged his nightshirt off and allowed me to see his body.
Now he seemed female, quite entirely female, as I evaluated the stage of delivery. "Soon," I said. "But there is no blood, your colour is good, the child seems well placed, and the pain is ordinary."
Male above, female below, like Hermaphroditus in reverse. "Ordinary," Holmes said.
"Yes, ordinary! Your body is rearranging itself to admit the passage of a child. Of course it will hurt! But not for long. A few hours, I should judge." I relented. "Morphine is considered safe," I said.
Holmes sighed and rolled onto his side. "You might have said so earlier."
"You only called seven minutes ago," Mary said. "Can you stand? You should be more comfortable if I can remove this mess."
"I'll help you," I said. I assisted him to stand, his arms around my neck and chest, bent almost double from the regular contraction of his abdomen. Mary removed the soiled blankets to the floor and spread the bed with an oilcloth and a clean sheet; then she knelt and cleaned Holmes's legs.
"This won't do," Holmes said. He grunted against my chest as his body seized. "Take off your clothes."
"I beg your pardon?" I said.
"You, Watson. This process has been quite unequal." He gasped and continued. "You have seen too many of my secrets. Take off your clothes."
I helped Holmes back to the bed. He rested on his side, glaring angrily at me, his arms wrapped around his abdomen. I looked at Mary.
"Off!" Holmes shouted.
"Oh, for heaven's sake! You're only delaying the morphine," I said, as I pulled my pyjama shirt over my head. "You have seen me nude a great many times! You never respected the privacy of the bath," I nearly shouted, unbuttoning my pyjama trousers. "Here. A naturist birth. You are the most absurd creature, Holmes." I knelt, feeling draughty and ridiculous, and retrieved the morphia and syringe from my bag.
I gave him a small dose, to avoid as much harm as possible to the child. There was a small risk with morphine that the child would emerge sleepy and sedated. Holmes had refrained from his usual vices of alcohol, morphine, and cocaine during his pregnancy, so I would not have to give him the monstrous doses I had become accustomed to. Holmes sighed with relief and said, "Yes, I can still feel it, but I no longer feel like I shall shortly die."
"Good," I said. I felt for the position of the child.
"Sit up," Mary said. "Here, lean against me." She sat against the headboard. Holmes willingly crawled into her arms. Mary passed her eyes over me with evident amusement, but made no comment.
"The mouth of your womb is normally tightly shut," I began to explain.
"Yes! I read your books as well. I know what is happening. No more impudent discussion of my womb; I do not wish to hear it."
"You're doing very well," I said, and in fact said very little else but that during the next few hours.
As the night greyed into dawn we felt a change; the shape of Holmes's belly altered and his grunts seemed more focused. Holmes knelt on the bed, Mary beside him, myself behind him, and with a great many howls, he bore down and pushed the child into the world.
"A boy," I said. "A well formed boy!" I rubbed a cloth over his face and listened to his chest for the crucial first breath. He took it. He was alive!
"Holmes! A boy!" I cried again as the baby wailed.
Holmes, prostrate against the mattress, said "Splendid," without much enthusiasm.
Mary, to my very great astonishment, stripped out of her nightgown and used it to wipe the baby clean. "One more push, old man, to expel the placenta, and then you're done," I told him. Holmes moaned piteously but followed my instruction.
Then the four of us, exhausted, soiled, and nude, rested in the golden glow of the morning light. I may have slept. I opened my eyes to find Holmes examining the infant boy as he lay curled on Mary's breast. "John," he said, "I do hope his head will not always look like this."
I laughed; then I pulled his thighs open and checked him for bleeding. "Insolent lout!" Holmes cried, slapping me away.
"What an excellent doctor I am," I said, still laughing, or perhaps one might say giggling. "Such a great doctor that I can bring a man to child-bed and he emerges unscathed! You aren't even torn, Holmes."
"I shall have to burn these bedclothes and buy new. I have no notion how to clean them in secret," Mary said, and sighed. "And the boy has excused himself. So much to do!" She stood with the baby in her arms and her hair falling across her shoulders. She was sublimely beautiful.
Holmes was already asleep again, his work complete.
*
I was despatched to the village for more milk and sugar. Holmes, of course, lacking any breast tissue, was unable to feed the child, but we were fully versed in the most modern, scientific infant formulas.
When I returned, I found Holmes dressed in a clean night-shirt, resting in our bed, and Mary sitting beside him, fully dressed, with the baby. I sat beside her and touched the baby's cheek. I was amazed, again, at the smallness of newborns.
"What shall we name him?" Mary asked.
"Sherlock," Holmes said. "An excellent name."
"I would prefer to be slightly more discreet," Mary said, smiling.
"Hamish," I suggested. My full name is John Hamish Watson.
"No, dear, indeed," Mary said.
We all regarded the baby. He was a healthy size, roughly seven pounds, with the characteristic misshapen head of the newly born, a great deal of brown hair, vague blue eyes, tender pink skin, and very little else in the way of distinguishing features. He had a full complement of limbs and digits and a cleanly cut umbilical stump. "Plato," Holmes said.
"I refuse," I said.
"Isaac," Holmes said.
"For Newton?"
"Of course. Or Antoine."
"We are not French."
"For Lavoisier," Holmes said impatiently.
"My father's name is Aloysius, but he is certain not to approve of our adoption of a foundling child," Mary said.
"Mine was Hamish. I don't see what's wrong with it."
Mary only smiled at me. "I'd rather not, dear."
"If he is a foundling, name him Moses," Holmes said.
"We are not Jews, either," I said.
"It occurs to me..." Mary said. "My great-uncle Horace, my favourite relation. He is the reason I insisted on having a profession. He used to tell me stories of his travels in Europe and North America. He was an actor, not entirely respectable; my father only allowed me near him because he was a valetudinarian and, my father thought, past all corrupting influence. He was a lifelong bachelor. He must have been a lover of men, now that I understand about that sort of thing; he died when I was fourteen, so I never had the chance to ask. He would find this entire situation a delight."
"Delight! An excellent emotion," Holmes said.
"Horace Watson?" I said.
"Horace Hamish Watson," Mary replied.
"No," I said. "Horace Morstan Watson."
"Horace Sherlock Watson," Holmes interjected.
"Holmes, his origin is meant to be a secret, you imbecile," I said.
*
When Holmes emerged from bed, he leapt into action once again--quite ill-advisedly. "I am offensively weak!" he shouted at me when I ventured into the garden. He lifted two rocks in his hands, over and over.
"Sit down before you collapse," I told him.
"Never again!" Holmes declared.
I stopped his action with a sharp rap to each wrist, so that he dropped the stones. In return, he nutted me. We grappled across the garden like schoolboys. He was, in fact, much weaker since his confinement, but his dirty tactics left me face-down in the dirt with his knees strangling my throat and my shin pinned in his arms. I expected any moment to feel his teeth in my ankle, but instead he rolled off me, panting. He held both hands to his shrinking but still prominent belly.
I wiped the dirt from my moustache. "If you have harmed yourself, I have no sympathy whatever," I said.
"I must begin a strict regimen. Heaven only knows what my enemies have been doing in my absence." Holmes tucked his hands beside his head and attempted a handstand from his supine position; he got as far as bringing his knees over his head before I rolled to my feet and grabbed his ankles, trapping him in a curled pose. "Watson, you annoy me," Holmes said.
"That is my role in life, I confess. You must rest or risk damage." I stepped backwards, forcing him to uncurl.
"Bosh."
"Holmes, I love you dearly," I said, which at least held his attention. "You have just given birth. You are still bleeding. Yes, you tried to hide it, but I am a doctor and I know how the body works. Your organs are cramped and disordered. You must be gentle with yourself or infection and injury may result."
"I am no delicate English rose," Holmes said.
"As you have told me, over and over again. And I repeat: You are human."
There was a very queer look on Holmes's face. I felt him relent in my hands, and relax upon the ground. Rather than picking him up, I reclined beside him and placed my hand over his heart. He covered my hand with his own. He was hale, vital, his pulse strong and slow.
"I did wonder, from time to time, whether your concern was on behalf of the child, or me, or of overweening medical curiosity," Holmes said.
"The child is a stranger, newly arrived from an unknown land. You are Holmes," I said. "You are quite right. The pregnancy did rob your mental faculties." I rubbed his chest.
Holmes closed his eyes. "I am bleeding, yes, in a way. It has turned to brown muck. Quite disgusting, but normal."
"Yes," I said, satisfied. I rested my head on my arm and basked in the August sun. Before long, Holmes's head lolled to one side. He was asleep. I carried him inside to the sofa.
*
By September, Holmes was able to fit into his customary wardrobe. We walked to the village arm in arm. "What a lovely place this is," he said.
"Yes. A pity you weren't able to enjoy it."
"I'm enjoying it now."
One of Holmes's small helpers saw us. "Mr. Holmes! Is that Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
"It is," Holmes said.
But another child elbowed the first. "It never! Look at the picture!" They consulted the magazine.
"Our ruse may have backfired," I said to Holmes.
"Nonsense! This is the precise reaction I intended."
"But he paid me to collect weeds. A whole shilling!" the first boy said.
"The other one could be Holmes. He's taller," the second boy said.
The first boy cuffed him across the head. "That's Dr. Watson!" They scuffled briefly.
"Good heavens, boys! How can I solve this conundrum? I am who I say I am, but how am I to prove it?" Holmes asked them.
The boys looked at him carefully. "What kind of dog do I have?" asked the first boy.
"A prime ratting terrier, wire-haired."
"What does my father do?" asked the second boy.
"He is the dry goods merchant."
"How old am I?" asked the first boy.
"Eight--and your birthday is in March."
"What's my name?" asked the second boy, wide-eyed.
"Oscar Taylor," Holmes answered.
Both boys gasped. "Mr. Holmes!" They both ran to the public house, crying "Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes is here!"
Holmes smiled at me. "I shall enjoy this," he said.
*
When Holmes was able to travel, we secreted the baby in a basket and moved into the city of Bournemouth. We took rooms in a hotel, aired the infant in public, and, most importantly, christened him.
"You will be the godfather, Holmes."
"I don't believe in any such--"
I cut him off with a vicious pinch to the ear. "Holmes. You are coming; you are behaving; you are vowing to look over this infant; or God help me, I shall visit upon you such tortures as the Empire has never seen."
Holmes looked at me. "My dear fellow!"
"Do not try me."
"Mary!" Holmes cried.
"Oh, I will help him," Mary said.
"I see," Holmes said. "I am pressed like a grape. Let me put on a tie."
So, to my very great joy, Holmes stood beside us as we christened the child Horace Hamish Morstan Watson. He promised to walk with the child and help him. It felt very queer to stand before the church with the secret of Horace's birth concealed between the three of us, but in the end, what did it matter? He had three parents to care for him rather than two. He was an extraordinarily lucky child.
Then we returned to London. It was the first week of September and the air was turning crisp. I found my house very clean and pleasant, well kept despite our long absence, and made Elsie the present of a sovereign for her troubles, the last draught on Holmes's funds.
It was time to part.
Holmes held Horace in his arms. If he had baulked, I could not have blamed him, though of course it would have been a great upheaval of our plans.
"Well, then," Holmes said, finally, and handed Horace to me. "Well. Better you than me."
He donned his hat and departed.
*
I did not know how long it would be until I heard from Holmes again. As it turned out, it was only twelve hours before I received a message from him.
There was a knock at the front door in the black hours before dawn. I heard and responded from my bedroom at the same time as the maid. "Go back to bed, Elsie," I said quietly. "No doubt it is a patient. Listen for Horace if he cries."
"Yes, sir," she said, and retreated upstairs.
I unlocked the door and found a veiled lady without. A hired coach waited in the street. "May I help you?"
She offered me a handkerchief. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes sends his regards and asks that you treat this poor boy." It was my handkerchief.
"Of course," I said. I ventured out to the coach in my dressing gown and slippers. "What has happened?"
The coach door was open. A man stepped out, carrying a young man in late adolescence. It was clear, even in the darkness, that he was bleeding profusely from his arm. "You should have brought him to hospital, not to me!" I said.
"Please," the lady said.
"Bring him inside as fast as you can!" I ran to the man and raised the boy's arm over his head to attempt to stem the flow of blood.
The boy was very pale. He was bleeding from a knife wound high up on the inside of his arm. I cut away his clothing, instructing the attending man to hold his arm high.
"John," Mary said. I did not turn away from my patient. "How can I help?"
"I need silk, as fine as possible. Silk thread. I must repair the damage or this boy will lose his arm."
Mary found the silk suturing material as I sponged away the blood with white spirit and cleaned out the wound. The boy was unconscious. A blessing for him, as it would spare him pain, but a bad sign medically.
She set needle and thread beside me on the table. "Soak it well in white spirit while I wash my hands," I instructed her. I kept a quantity of strong soap and boiled water in my surgery for this purpose. I had seen the effects of proper hygiene in the field in Afghanistan and believed fully in the precepts of antisepsis.
Sewing the boy's wound was messy work, but I worked quickly and neatly and the boy still breathed by the end, so I considered the job well done. "I see Sherlock was right," the lady said. Her servant gathered up the discarded clothing as I cut it from his body.
"If infection sets in he will lose the arm. But I have done my best," I said. I cleaned the blood from the wound, dressed it, and looked for other injuries. He seemed unmarked. "He's young and strong. If he lasts the night, he will live." I knew this much from war.
"He will live, then," the lady said.
"Pardon me, but are you friends of Sherlock Holmes?" Mary asked.
"Indeed. I go by Georgiana." He drew the veil from his face.
"Oh, dear GOD!" I cried. I sat down behind my desk.
Georgiana raised his painted eyebrow. His massive servant frowned.
"It is not a condemnation," I assured him quickly. "But if I cannot tell male from female, it does rather lead me to question my skill."
Georgiana smiled. He wore cosmetics like a female, but his face bore the unmistakeable masculine stamp. "The young man is the Baron of S--," he said. "You see I could not bring him to the attention of the authorities. Exposure, disgrace, and ruination would result." He stroked the young man's hair back from his forehead and spoke to his servant in French.
Mary also spoke in the same language. "I'm asking Bruno to carry him to our bed, John," she told me. "I am quite awake. It's past four o'clock."
Georgiana left the boy with us. We took turns sitting with him, but he did not wake all day. Holmes stopped by at dusk. "The man who stabbed him is dead," Holmes told me. "He fell off a building."
I looked at him. "Is this a confession?" I asked.
"No, indeed. I would have preferred to catch him alive. As it is, I had to track down his hiding place on my own." Holmes produced a large packet of letters from his inside pocket. "He was a blackmailer. He was in the process of stealing the young man's letters, and his watch to boot, when the lad caught him."
"In a molly-house?" I asked.
"In a salon where gentleman of like interests meet one another," Holmes said, with precise delicacy.
"Oh, I see. You were a guest, therefore it was quite genteel."
Holmes sniffed. He glanced inside the open letters, one by one, and then carefully burned them.
"Forgive me," I said. "There's no shame in gentlemen meeting each other. I'm too used to treating the subject with schoolboy levity. The young man was searching for love, and that is not at all funny."
Holmes held up a letter as it burned. "Yes, perhaps. I was searching for a well-salted pickle, though, to add savour to my mutton."
I laughed, too loud; I stifled myself to avoid disturbing the boy in the bed. Holmes splayed his legs and wagged his knee lasciviously as he lounged by the fire. "I was too long in the country. I ache for a firm hand and a firmer rod."
"Mind your tongue or I'll tawse you myself. This is a sickroom, Holmes."
Holmes smiled sardonically. He carefully laid the last two letters on the fire. "It should be safe to return the Baron to his home. He was waylaid by a ruffian and treated by a respectable doctor. Any further details are concealed by discreet tongues, ashes, and the grave."
"Very well. Once he wakes up, then." I checked my watch. "Will you dine with us?"
"Dine?" Holmes's stomach roiled audibly as he spoke. "Ah, yes. I suppose one must eat at least once a week."
He was back to normal, then.
*
Elsie called us up to the sick room as we concluded dinner, Holmes and Mary and I lingering over the wine. "Dr. Watson, the young man is awake."
Both Mary and Holmes were interested in the Baron's well-being, but I left them outside the door as I checked his vitals. He was very pale indeed, and his pulse weak, but his temperature was good and the knife wound showed no more than usual inflammation. There was no smell or discharge to indicate infection. "I'm Doctor John Watson," I told him. "You're Lord S--, I believe? You were stabbed, but you will recover."
"Doctor...?" he breathed. He looked around the room with confusion. "Where am I?"
"My house. My bed, in fact. We'll soon remove you home."
"My apologies," he said. He seemed to regain more of his senses. "Yes... yes, I am Lord S--. Who... how did I come here?"
He tried to sit up. I pushed him firmly down. "If you raise your head above your heart, you may faint. You lost an enormous amount of blood and it will take three to four weeks to fully recover. For now, it is essential that you rest."
Holmes, it seemed, had reached the end of his patience, and opened the door. "Ah! Young Billy. I told old Georgiana to bring you here, for I knew I could trust my intimate friend. Your letters are entirely safe."
The young man's eyes widened. His pulse leaped against my hand and he fainted dead away. "This is why I left you outside, Holmes," I told him. I lifted the Baron's legs onto a pillow. Mary provided me with aromatic vinegar and I revived him again.
The Baron's eyes fluttered open again. "Sir, I think you have the advantage of me," he said weakly.
"Sherlock Holmes, fellow wearer of the green carnation. You're entirely safe. Georgiana is a lifelong friend." Holmes patted the boy's cheek. "I'll send for your carriage."
*
The Baron possessed a large four-wheeled carriage, a great deal of footmen, and a worried sister, all of whom save the carriage and horses poured into my small house. I was able to exercise enough authority to keep the Baron from walking out, though, and we carried him home in the extraordinary manner demanded by his condition: Resting on his back, with his head in Holmes's lap and his legs raised to the level of my shoulders. I could have positioned us in the reverse, of course, but from the look on the young man's face when he gazed upon Holmes, I thought he would rather enjoy my friend's lap.
I promised to return daily to examine the wound and received payment significantly in excess of what I would have charged him. In all, a highly satisfactory case, and I told Holmes so.
"Excellent," he replied. "I shall send you all my disreputable acquaintances."
*
I was at work in my consulting room when the maid knocked. "Mr. Mycroft Holmes to see you, sir," she said.
"Yes, of course, show him in," I said, but when she turned, Mycroft Holmes's vast bulk already loomed behind her.
"Kindly dismiss your maid," Mycroft Holmes said. He seated himself by the fire. I had met him only twice before, but I knew enough to be wary of him, and to follow his demands.
"Mr. Holmes likes his privacy, Elsie. One hour. Do what you like."
"Yes, sir," she said, bobbing nervously. She left.
Mycroft Holmes was the only man Sherlock would concede as more intelligent than himself. He did look the part. His hair was an iron grey, oiled severely back from a large dome of forehead. Unlike Sherlock, he was enormously fat. As a doctor I would judge him unwell, if not actively suffering. Between his florid complexion and his short breath, I would not be surprised if he had frequent palpitations of the heart. "Doctor!" Mycroft Holmes said sharply. "Cease your diagnosis."
"Do excuse me. Sheer habit in my consulting room. May I offer you some tea? A sherry?"
"No."
"I presume you came to see the child," I said.
"Yes."
"Certainly. You are nearly family. A moment, please, while I locate my wife."
"She's in the drawing room, of course," Mycroft Holmes said irritably.
Mary was in the drawing room with Horace, working on a tiny bonnet. "Would you join us in my study, dearest? Mycroft Holmes has called."
"Of course. I am on fire to meet him," Mary said, dropping the bonnet and gathering Horace into her arms.
Mycroft Holmes tapped his lower lip when we entered. "Your maid is too honest. She oils your books and straightens your pills. She has a secret. A natural child, her shame. When my brother calls she nearly shatters with nerves. Keep her; she will never cheat you, and you may pay her nothing."
"We may double her wages, then," Mary said. "It is so good to meet you, Mr. Holmes." She passed Horace into Mycroft Holmes's arms.
Mycroft Holmes examined Horace briefly. "Yes, he has the Holmes eyes. His colouring will darken. He will not resemble you."
"How fortunate that we are not lying about his provenance," Mary replied. Mycroft Holmes cast a sharp eye over her. "Only lies of omission," she amended.
"I see you are fully aware of my brother's unique condition."
"I was present at the birth."
"You are an acceptable mother." Mycroft Holmes handed Horace back to her. "You are offended. Don't be. It is a compliment. I have arranged for a substantial sum to come to your sole control, Mrs. Watson. It will pay for a first class education for the child. Room and board will be provided if necessary. Say nothing, Dr. Watson," he said, looking at me. "You are a gamester and unreliable with money. The child must want for nothing. If I die without issue, as seems likely, he will be my heir. Whether he is heir to my work as well, we shall see."
"Or your brother's work," I said.
Mycroft Holmes snorted throatily. "Solving petty crimes. What a waste. Still, as a girl he was far worse. An embarrassment. As a man, he is a credit to the family name, even if he is wasting his full potential."
"Sherlock has helped a great many people," I said.
Mycroft Holmes looked at me. His eyes were black and bottomless, not malevolent, but cold. "Just so," he said. "Congratulations on the birth of your son, Doctor, Mrs. Watson. I take my leave. I doubt we will meet again."
"You are quite welcome here," I said.
Mycroft Holmes left without a further word.
"I believe we have survived the Inquisition, Mary," I said.
"You will learn more pleasing manners or I shall box your ears," Mary whispered to Horace.
*
Some few days later, I visited Holmes at Baker Street. I found the door locked. "Holmes! It's Watson."
I heard a brief pause behind the door, which doubtless indicated Holmes was extricating himself from some arcane and dangerous experiment. "Don't you have a key, old dog?" Holmes said through the door as he unlocked it.
"Not on me. And I fear what I may walk into, from long experience," I told him. I found Holmes in his dressing gown and nothing else. I closed the door securely before I showed him the letters I had brought. "Billets-doux from the Baron. Two of them." I fanned the letters between my fingers.
"Two letters in three days?"
"He is quite desperately in love with his gallant rescuer."
"How unfortunate," Holmes said, but he took the letters. "Does he expect a reply?"
"He hopes for one. I am happy to carry it; I see him daily. He's healing well."
Holmes set the letters on his desk, beside the face-down portrait of Mrs. Adler, and dropped his dressing gown. He stood in front of the mirror mother-naked.
"I see you have overcome your shyness before me," I said.
"My hips have spread. Do I appear male to you?" He frowned intently at his reflection.
I drew closer, resting my hand on his strong shoulder. "You do not seem female." I could see the rounded curve of his belly, though, quite different from the hard ridges of muscle he had had before the pregnancy. The angry red lashes of stretch marks crossed up the seam of his abdomen.
"My trousers do not fit well. I'm no longer so lean." He shifted, cocking his hip to the side. The thick black curls between his legs hid any external sign of his female organs. He was rounded in the hips, but not Rubenesque by any yardstick. I had seen young men with much finer, fatter bottoms than his.
"You appear male," I told him, quite honestly. "A man with a deeply unfortunate amputation and some unusual scars, but male. Even from this distance."
"We both know you are no judge."
I sighed and slapped his naked backside. "Put your clothes on, you preening Narcissus. Go make love to your admirer."
Holmes picked up his dressing gown. "I never make love. I find, fuck, and flee."
"Maybe you should change your game. Marriage is wonderful," I said, crossing my hands over my heart like a music hall actor. Holmes rolled his eyes as he tied his belt. "But you have had such a difficult road, my dear friend; I want you to find happiness."
He took my face in his hands. "As long as I have you to cluck over me, how could I be discontent?" He kissed my lips.
"Call on the Baron," I told him.
"Yes, yes, all right," Holmes said. He patted my cheek.
*
When Horace learned to walk, I summoned Holmes immediately to show him my son's achievement. Horace raced from chair to my knee to Gladstone's stolid face with wild abandon. "Only a year old!" I said proudly.
"Ah," Holmes said. We both watched Horace as he came to rest at my feet, engrossed in the shine of my shoes. "How long is my interest meant to last?"
"Some twenty to forty years," I said.
"Well, I'll leave you to it." Holmes grimaced and clapped me on the shoulder. "There's been a wonderfully intricate murder on Fleet Street. I'm going to examine the floorboards."
"I can't join you. I have patients this afternoon."
"Very well, then. I'll borrow your wife," Holmes said.
"You shall not, sir!" But he had already left me, bounding up the stairs to my bedchamber. "Holmes! You may not!"
Thus I was left holding the baby as Holmes and my wife shouldered past me. "I'll be home in time for dinner, John," Mary said, pinning her hat into place. She kissed Horace's cheek.
"I forbid it!"
"Goodnight, John!" Mary cried, disappearing down the stairs.
*
the end.