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Sherlock Holmes was a man of many eccentricities, some more unusual than others. I have already mentioned in previous writings his propensity for smoking foul tobaccos, his explosive experiments and his indoor pistol shooting, but I must confess that the one that baffled me the most was perhaps the least odd of his habits:
Holmes steadfastly refused to share a bed.
It must be said that the opportunity did not arise very often. At the start of our partnership, we would usually reserve two rooms when Holmes’ cases took us outside London. I didn’t think much of it then; even though I quickly came to trust Holmes, a part of me still felt self-conscious about my wounds and my occasional nightmares, and I had no desire for him to see either up close.
Sometimes, however, we could not obtain separate rooms, and we soon became accustomed to sharing. Holmes was kind enough to allow me some privacy when I changed and never mentioned my nightly tossing and turning, even though I was sure it must wake him. Still, in every instance, Holmes managed to secure double-bedded rooms—that is, a room with two beds—so that even if we did share quarters, we retained a certain independence.
I did not give it much thought, until one night when, after a gruelling train ride and an afternoon searching for clues and questioning witnesses, Holmes and I made our way to a small inn, where the owner informed us that all he had available was a single room with one bed.
“Thank you, but that won’t do,” Holmes had replied quickly. “Are you certain you don’t have a cot, perhaps, that could be brought into the room?”
“Holmes,” I protested. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
I was dead on my feet and could barely keep my eyes open. I couldn’t believe that he would delay our bedtime over such a minor issue.
“No, Watson, I really must insist.” He wouldn’t look at me but turned once more to the innkeeper. “Surely you—”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Holmes. I only have the one room and one bed. No cot would fit in that room anyhow. But,” he added hastily when Holmes made out to leave, “there is a comfortable armchair in the corner. Perhaps I could bring you additional pillows?”
“I suppose that will do,” Holmes sighed. “Come, Watson. You look ready to fall asleep on your feet.”
“I am,” I agreed. “But really, Holmes! Surely you don’t intend to sleep in an armchair.”
“Indeed I do, my dear doctor. No, do not give me that look. I have slept in worse places, you know.”
“When you’ve had no other choice, perhaps. But now you have a perfectly good bed, so why on Earth should you not use it?” A horrible thought made its way into my mind. “It’s not— I mean, it’s not because I keep you awake, is it?” With my disturbed sleep, Holmes might find me a rather unpleasant bedfellow, I realised.
“Not at all, dear Watson! If anything, it is I who would disturb your sleep and I have no intention of doing so.”
I opened my mouth to object, but Holmes was already pushing me into the room. He refused to hear my protests and, once the innkeeper had brought additional pillows and blankets, he set upon making the armchair as comfortable as possible.
“Really, Holmes,” I grumbled again as I crawled under the covers. “There’s ample space in the bed. I would hardly notice you’re here!”
“Then I don’t see why it should matter if I’m not.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and turned off the lamp. Holmes could be incredibly childish and stubborn at times, and it was pointless to argue with him.
The next morning, I could not say for sure if Holmes had slept at all. He waved my questions away and behaved energetically, though knowing the man as I knew him, it could have all been an act.
However, as the case dragged on, and one night became two, then three, it became apparent that the sleeping arrangements were beginning to take a toll on Holmes. The boundless energy he displayed on the first morning was nowhere to be seen by the third day, and I began to worry that he might cause himself serious harm if he did not rest properly. Still, exhausted as he was, he was nonetheless his usual brilliant self, and by the early afternoon, the case was solved and we were on the train back to London. I was dying to know how Holmes had reached his conclusions, but before we had even left the station, Holmes had closed his eyes and dozed off. I watched him for some time, relieved he was sleeping and curious about his odd refusal to share a bed. Holmes was a very still sleeper; the few times I had been able to observe him in such a state, he had hardly moved. It was a bit uncanny, but it directly contradicted his statement from earlier. How would he disturb my sleep, when he barely even seemed to breathe when he slept?
The idea that he could have simply been trying to spare my feelings wormed its way back into my mind, but I dismissed it. I fancied I knew Holmes well enough by then, and nothing in his words or actions suggested that I was the problem. No, it must be something else entirely, and I found myself wanting to get to the bottom of it.
Of course, not wanting to question Holmes about it out of the blue, I had no choice but to wait for the situation to arise again. But neither the second instance—in which Holmes successfully found alternative accommodations at the client’s estate—nor the third—in which he outright refused to stay in the room and instead spent the night wandering the nearby woods in search of clues—provided me with even the slightest hint as to the reasons behind his decidedly odd behaviour.
It was maddening; Holmes clearly had no problem with sleeping in my presence, so it did not seem to be a fear of appearing vulnerable. Whatever his qualms, they seem to be directly related to the idea of sharing a bed.
On one occasion, I found myself wondering if Holmes had somehow uncovered my secret and it was the resulting discomfort that drove him to avoid my bed. I have always known I was attracted to men, so I rarely acted upon it and indeed, hardly ever thought about it. The idea that Holmes knew and was keeping his distance for that reason wounded me; despite not being immune to his charms, I would never try to force myself on him. Holmes was, above all, my dearest friend, and no amount of desire could make me jeopardise that. And anyhow, I told myself, if that were the reason, he surely wouldn’t agree to share a room with me at all; but he didn’t seem to mind that. So perhaps I was wrong.
Finally, a new case took us away from London. This time, I was determined to get to the bottom of my little mystery. Our client, Mrs. Vandeberry, was waiting for us at the station with a dogcart to take us to her home located a couple of miles outside the village.
“I am terribly grateful that you have come, and I would be most pleased if you would accept my hospitality. I’m afraid I only have the one guest room with a double bed,” she hesitated, “I know it’s not ideal, but—”
“It is perfectly agreeable, madam,” I assured her, pinching Holmes’ arm to keep him quiet. “It is most kind of you to offer.”
I gave Holmes a fierce glare to ensure he would not say a word. He responded with a surly sigh and looked away. Knowing he would still be listening, I asked Mrs. Vandeberry to share with us the details of her case. She laid it out concisely, and by the time we reached the country house, Holmes had sufficiently recovered from his pout to ask her questions about the events that had unfolded.
The guest bedroom was small but well appointed. It did not, however, have an armchair or cot for Holmes to appropriate. Nothing but a simple wooden chair, over which I folded my clothes as I changed into my nightshirt. Holmes watched me for a while, arms crossed and eyes stormy. When I was done with my ablutions, he rose from his slouch and stretched.
“Well, doctor, good night. I shall go look for any clues the police might have missed earlier. Don’t wait up.”
“Absolutely not! Holmes, don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not. I am merely making an efficient use of my time—”
“You cannot go wandering about while everyone is asleep. Everything will still be there in the morning, now come to bed.”
Holmes abruptly stiffened, and in the low lamp light, it almost looked as if his cheeks had turned a shade darker. No doubt it was a trick of the light, I told myself as I stepped toward him. He remained completely still when I reached him, and I took the opportunity to turn the key in the lock and remove it.
“Now change out of those clothes and get into bed before you catch cold. I don’t know why you insist on behaving this way, but I will not let you spend the night awake over something as childish as not wanting to share a bed.”
There was something like resignation in Holmes’ eyes as he reached into his carpet bag for his nightshirt. I was surprised and somewhat disconcerted by this uncharacteristic obedience; I had expected him to push back and found myself wondering if I hadn’t gone too far in locking the door.
“Holmes—” I began, but he cut me off with a small wave.
“You’re quite right, Watson. I’m being ridiculous.”
He wouldn’t meet my eye as he slipped between the sheets. He seemed tense, and I hoped again I wasn’t making a mistake. I moved as close as I could to the edge of the bed, so that he would not feel crowded.
“There,” I said feeling a bit foolish, “plenty of space for the two of us.”
He gave a small smile—good Lord, he looked more nervous by the minute—and turned off the lamp. I tried to put my guilt aside and close my eyes. I could hear Holmes’ soft breathing nearby.
“Watson?” he whispered suddenly just as I was about to surrender to sleep. “Watson, would you forgive me? If I ever—” he cut himself off abruptly.
I waited, half asleep, to see if he would continue. When he didn’t, I reached a hand toward his and gave it a squeeze. “Of course, dear fellow,” I mumbled. “Always.”
He sighed and I wondered why he would need me to forgive him, and that was the last I thought of before falling asleep for good.
I awoke some hours later, feeling warm and pleasantly sleepy. Dawn was beginning to light up the room, but I figured I could easily sleep some more before the household began to stir. I went to turn around and realised that the warmth along my back did not come from the blankets piled on the bed, but from a much warmer, living source. Holmes was pressed against me, still asleep, with an arm and the leg thrown over my side in a convincing imitation of an octopus. His deep breaths tickled my ear, and I suddenly found myself much more awake than I had been a few moments earlier. Could this be why Holmes had been so reluctant to share a bed? The idea made me chuckle. Sherlock Holmes, who publicly decried softer emotions as utter poppycock and a total distraction, was in private, as clingy as a limpet. Of course, I knew him to be accepting of physical contact, though he tended to stick to brief touches here and there—certainly nothing as prolonged or as complete as this.
Holmes must have sensed I was awake. In the blink of an eye, he had pulled away and retreated to the edge of the bed. I turned toward him, intending to tease him a little to show him I didn’t mind at all. But the words died in my mouth as I took in his appearance: though he tried to hide it, I could see the horror in his eyes. He had wrapped his arms around his torso, as if he feared what he might do if he let go.
“Oh, Holmes…”
“I must apologise, Watson,” he said stiffly, not looking at me. “I’m afraid I cannot control my body in my sleep.”
It occurred to me then that this was why he had been asking for my forgiveness the night before. Had this happened to him before and been met with an unfavourable reaction? My heart clenched at the thought.
“You have nothing to apologise for, my dear man,” I assured him, shifting closer to him and wrapping him in my arms. He tensed, then relaxed when he realised I meant no harm. “If this is the reason you have been avoiding sharing a bed with me, then you really have been foolish. I cannot imagine a more pleasant sensation than your arms around me.”
“I couldn’t be sure,” he whispered, burying his face in my chest.
“Surely you could have deduced it.”
“Not… not when it comes to you. Watson, I’m afraid I cannot be objective enough about you for that.”
“Well, no matter,” I said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I will simply make sure to tell you so you do not need to. But first, let’s go back to sleep. It’s still early, and I intend to enjoy this for as long as I can.”