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Looking back over the many years that have passed since what I only dare to detail in my private journal, I must admit that my dear friend's strange behavior should have been clear to me much sooner than it was. Despite the hints he left when he was in one of his more “pawky” humors, the evidence of his condition had to be thrust in my face before my mind, much slower and more plodding than his, was capable of understanding it. To this day, on occasion, I can scarcely believe what I know very well is true. As retirement settles in and I find very little to do besides going through old notes and recording the details of my life with Sherlock Holmes, this account weighs heavily enough in my thoughts that I must put it to words before I can think of writing anything else.
I have never in my life been much of a dreamer. For a time after I returned from Afghanistan, before I settled comfortably into Baker Street, I suffered nightmares that jolted me from my sleep and left me sweating, but those faded with time. Even during my transition from bachelorhood to living with Mary, while I felt a sense of loss I refused to admit to, my sleep remained empty. It was not until I believed Holmes had gone over the falls that I began to dream once more.
The first dream transpired perhaps about four months after my friend and I separated at the Reichenbach Falls, not very long before Mary’s health began to deteriorate. As opposed to Afghanistan or India, the usual locations of my feverish terrors, I remained in my own bed, my wife breathing peacefully beside me. Through the dark, I was aware of a figure at the far end of the room, looming beside the door. Tall and almost skeletally thin, it filled the room with its silence – but, rather than feeling any sort of fear, I felt oddly comforted by this being. In my drowsy confusion, I felt compelled to reach for it, to beckon it nearer, but before I could put action to this bizarre desire the creature slipped through the door without opening it, as if it had never been there in the first place.
As Mary declined, I began sleeping in a different room of the house. This was in part so as not to disturb her, in the hopes that it might give her a more restful sleep, but I regret to admit that it was also selfish on my part. I had already lost my dearest friend, and the fragile hope of Mary surviving her illness was easily shattered when I could hear her labored breathing. During that unsteady year, the quiet being visited me in my sleep more and more frequently, and each night seemed to come closer to my bed. Finally, several days before my poor Mary passed, I dreamed that the creature stood beside my bed. Its presence brought me a sense of peace I had not felt since traveling to Switzerland, and as I slipped back into black oblivion, I felt something akin to a hand pass over my brow.
Years passed. Holmes returned to me, and I gladly moved back into my old rooms at 221B Baker Street, the story of which has been told elsewhere. The inherent awkwardness of two friends who have spent a long time apart dissipated quickly, and our relationship was much the same as ever. If, on occasion, Holmes fixed me with a stare that was at once chilling and compelling, I assumed that I had forgotten the inexorable hold he had over me, and I would grow accustomed to it once more. I dreamed little, and not again of the creature – somewhat erroneously, I believed it a product of a mind much troubled.
If I were forced to pinpoint a single occasion that would have dispelled any belief that Holmes could have possibly been anything more than human, it would be perhaps that occasion two years after his return, when we sat together in our rooms and read over a letter claiming vampirism in Sussex. I remember very clearly that he scoffed at the notion, loudly proclaiming, “Ghosts need not apply,” and after the conclusion of the case I later referred to as “The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire,” I agreed wholeheartedly with him. Vampires made decent yellow-backs, and little more – or so I thought, at the time.
Two nights after our return from Lamberley, my nocturnal visitor came to my dreams for the first time since Holmes’s return. When I became aware of it, I found it once again standing close to my bed, its hand lightly brushing through my hair. Though I should perhaps have been discomfited, I remained in what I believed was a sleep-driven stupor, and the same sense of calm from before overcame me. As the figure slowly bent over my bed, features still indistinguishable in the dark, I only began to suspect that I might not have been dreaming when I felt the tactile pressure of a hand dip into the mattress. A puff of hot air ran down my neck, making my hair stand on end, but still I remained in place, bemused and – I must admit – still feeling enough of the vestigial complacency that I was loath to move.
It was then I felt two sharp scrapes on my neck, just above my collarbone. It was not enough to draw blood, but it was the point at which I could no longer believe I was dreaming.
Even as one ages, one never forgets the effects of sleeping with a gun within arm’s reach, ears open to sense an intruder, muscles coiled and ready to spring should someone be foolish enough to attack. Groggy as I was, I still managed to sit up sharply and shove the creature’s head away from me, while grabbing its arm in an attempt to keep it from escaping. As we struggled, my eyesight gradually adjusted to the darkness, and my mysterious assailant began to develop features I was horrified to recognize. He must have known the moment I did, for he immediately stopped trying to get away and simply hung his head.
“For God’s sake, don’t yell, Watson. You’ll bring the street in upon us.”
“Holmes?” It was, indeed. Still in his clothes from the day before, he heaved a heavy sigh and reluctantly sat on the very edge of my bed. If he had wanted to, I knew he could break my grip and escape, but instead he put one hand atop mine.
“Please, dear fellow, let go.” He still refused to look at me, casting his gaze anywhere but my face. I should have been angry, but any chance I had at rage evaporated when I saw the honest downcast look in what I could see of his eyes. “Promise you’ll say nothing, and I’ll never intrude on you again.”
“Has it been you, all this time? When Mary…?”
Holmes shrugged the shoulder farthest from me, fist clenching and unclenching on my sheets. “You were distraught. As I could not directly offer my companionship, occupied as I was in dismantling the last of Moriarty’s gang, it was the very least I could do for you.”
I might have been moved at such a statement under other circumstances, especially as such a touching display from this man was completely unprecedented, but I believe I was still perhaps groggy from my interrupted sleep. It took me a moment to process his meaning. “You never told me you were in London during your absence,” I said, only slightly lessening my grip on his arm. He glanced down at my hand, lips curling briefly into a frown.
“I was not in London,” he said, in his usual tone of voice that meant I was not meeting his intellectual expectations. “At least, not during the day. The powers of my kind are slightly beyond explanation, Watson, and I imagine you are too tired to hear the whole story.”
“On the contrary,” I said truthfully, removing my hand, “I am quite awake.” He sighed long and hard, but he did not go as I feared. Instead he folded his hands and placed them in his lap, finally turning just enough that his face was mostly turned toward mine. I had rarely seen such a look on his face; it was one of embarrassment, of being caught in a situation that did not appeal to him. For a moment I thought of our position, but truthfully his presence in my bedroom barely shocked me anymore, even on the best of days. Sherlock Holmes has never been a man who put much stock in propriety.
He took a short breath, rolled his eyes heavenward, and said, “Suffice to say, then, at this late hour, that stories of vampirism – while greatly exaggerated – do have grains of the truth, truths which have come from those who are like me.”
“But you were so dismissive of the occult before. The case–”
“I was dismissive of the idea of walking corpses, desperate for blood and banished with a plank of wood to the heart,” my friend snapped, waving his hand and looking back at me. “It’s completely ridiculous.” His words drew my attention back to what had caused this singular conversation in the first place, and almost without thinking I gently touched the spot where I had felt the scrape.
“…You will forgive me, Holmes, but I must ask: my neck?”
I had hardly intended to injure him again, but at that Holmes bent his back and heaved another, heavier sigh. “I owe you a sincere apology, Watson,” he said, freeing one hand and passing it over his face. “I did not mean… I thought I had greater control over myself than that. Be assured, though,” he continued, reaching out and placing his other hand on my leg, “that I have never once dreamed of harming you. I am incapable.”
This time I truly was moved. Placing my own hand atop his, I leaned forward so that I could be sure he understood my sincerity: “I trust you, Holmes. I have always trusted you.” He smiled at that, barely a thin twitch of his lips, but I recognized and appreciated it for what it was. We passed a moment in companionable silence as I attempted to absorb the gravity of this discovery, but I found myself truly troubled by only one subject. “Your… people.” I could not think of any other way to refer to him and the potential others of his kind, such as – perhaps – his own brother. I would have to remember to ask him later. “They do drink blood?”
“We have no need to survive on it, but it is part of our diet.”
“And you do not kill your victims?”
“I would hardly call them victims. They rarely ever know what happened.”
Aha. This was all I needed, then. Giving Holmes my own smile, I patted his hand once and withdrew slightly to lean against my headboard. “Then I see no reason this should change the nature of our companionship.”
For a moment Holmes looked relieved, as if my words had eased some of the worry he might have felt at having revealed such a personal part of himself to me, but the expression was quickly replaced by furrowed brows and stern, thin lips. “Be very sure, Watson. I have come very close to taking liberties with you, and it would… pain me greatly if later in life you might change your mind.”
I could not help a small laugh. “If I am being honest, old boy, in the many years of our acquaintance I have learned things about you that were far more shocking than this. How often do you…”
“Drink? Very infrequently. I believe the last time was… oh, maybe a decade, perhaps longer.”
“Is this healthy?”
Holmes frowned again, although this time I knew it to be the frown he sometimes used when he felt he should be disdainful instead of amused. Indeed, I knew the quirk of his mouth better than I had ever known Mary’s. I was aware of that then, lying there in my nightshirt, the pressure of his hand still near my body on the mattress, even if he had since removed it from my leg.
“I should have known this would only give you another aspect of my health else to poke at,” Holmes said, shaking his head. “You know my practices. You have spent rather a lot of time transcribing them. I refrain from anything that would get in the way of my work.”
“I’m afraid I must suspect that as a no, then.”
“This is hardly the same as skipping breakfast, Watson. The dedication that goes into the process is unfortunately much more complicated, from the actual process to locating someone to do it to, and it requires much more work than simply asking Mrs. Hudson to bring up a meal. I cannot bear to waste time that could be better spent in worthier occupations.”
Looking back through the years, and speaking with the experience of a slightly advanced age, I am almost embarrassed by the speed with which I came to my next decision. However, I knew – and know, to this day – that I was making the right choice. “Well, you needn’t look very far anymore,” I said, coming up from the headboard. “There are no lasting consequences?” For a moment, perhaps one of the more surprising moments of my life, Sherlock Holmes stared at me, his amazing brain working quickly to connect the words I had spoken to the meaning he wouldn’t believe. Finally, when he had come to terms with my offer, he did not shy away again. Instead, he leaned slightly forward and looked directly into my eyes, sending the gentlest of shivers down my spine.
“Think very carefully about this, Watson. I – you should not…”
“If it is of any benefit to you, I have never minded offering my assistance. This case is no different.”
“The implications, my dear fellow…” At that I laughed outwardly, plucking carelessly at the front of my nightgown. Quite clearly perceiving my meaning, he chuckled in return.
“They don’t matter. I hardly intend to inform anyone of this.” Encouraged by his positive responses thus far, somehow I found the bravery to reach out and once more clasp his hand, elegant and pale against the sheets. His gaze flickered from me to our hands, and then back again. “Do you?”
This time, I think it is fairly safe to say that Sherlock Holmes did not smile. Instead, I think the proper word here would be ‘grinned.’ “I can’t say that I do.”