The Adventure at Baskerville Hall & Other Cases

learned while you were distracted. When she knew that her mistress was writing to me she alerted Barney Stockdale, a villain I have had my eye on for some time, and he sent our guest this morning. But as for who is behind it all, that I cannot yet tell. All Susan would divulge, however involuntarily, was that it was a woman. Someone wants us out of this affair very badly, Watson."
    "I agree," I replied, watching him closely. I did not suppose that he would bring up the topic of Douglas Maberley anywhere except the privacy of our rooms, but I did so want to reassure him that he need not fear my reaction. This was, of course, assuming that my suspicions were correct, but I was fairly confident that they were. Holmes had been so utterly shaken by the news of Douglas's death, even now he still looked rattled, and the fact that he had not been able to stop such emotion from showing on his usually impassive countenance spoke volumes to me.
    Naturally, I did not begrudge him the time he had spent with other lovers before our relationship began, and I was certain that it had indeed been before. Quite apart from the fact that we had barely spent a night apart since his return, I knew that great heart well enough to be certain that once he had pledged himself to someone he would never betray his word. I suspected that it had been during the years he had spent away from London rather than his days at university; the intimacy was most likely recent or else it would not have provoked such a strong reaction.
    It would be unthinkable to broach the subject in public, yet I yearned to reassure him: for all that he was a genius of crime, he was very new to this type of settled, domestic relationship.
    Moments later we were at the station, and a short while after that we were stepping off the train at King's Cross.
    "Where will you go now?" Holmes asked, startling me slightly as he had been silent and lost in his thoughts for the entire train ride.
    "Back to Baker Street for a quick lunch, and then I have my round this afternoon."
    When I had moved back to my old lodgings, there had been a small handful of people who had begged me to keep them on as private patients. I had been flattered by the esteem in which they held my skills and had agreed, and I had to admit that my weekly round was refreshing for the chance to practise my medical skills at something other than patching up the endless cuts and bruises that Holmes accumulated during his work.
    "You are not joining me?" I asked, and Holmes shook his head.
    "I have other business that I must follow up this afternoon, and so I shall see you this evening. You still want to attend the ballet, don't you?"
    "I had completely forgotten about it," I confessed, smiling. "But yes. Shall I see you there, then?"
    "Yes. Tell Mrs. Hudson not to wait supper for me, I don't know what time I'll be back."
    And with an affectionate, discreet squeeze of my forearm, he was gone.
    * * * *
    Later that evening, I sat in a box at Covent Garden and listened to the orchestra tuning their instruments. That evening's performance was Swan Lake , something that I had expressed a fervent desire to see when I first saw the winter programme of the opera house. When I first suggested attending, Holmes had sighed in a put-upon fashion.
    "Tchaikovsky? Really, Watson?"
    "Whyever not?" I asked, bemused. "The man has a gift, you cannot deny it."
    "True, but his work is so ... overly dramatic," Holmes sighed again with just the slightest trace of disdain. "This is the man who wrote the 1812 Overture."
    I stared at him, hardly believing my ears. "Which you dislike. Quite understandably so, since you have such a horror of the dramatic in your own work," I added dryly.
    "Touché!" Holmes grinned at me unexpectedly. "Oh, very well, my boy. If you really wish to go then by all means, purchase the tickets."
    The strains of the first overture had begun when Holmes slipped into the seat beside me, with a whispered apology for his tardiness. The swelling music effectively put an end to any opportunity for conversation for the next couple of hours, and I lost myself in the story unfolding on stage.
    It was only when the haunting, urgent notes of the final scene began that I glanced over at Holmes to find him transfixed. He was biting his lip, his eyes were following every movement of the dancers, but it was not difficult to guess where his thoughts tended, especially with the tale of love and loss being played out on stage below