The Adventure at Baskerville Hall & Other Cases

certain other things that are rather unsuitable for the pages of a family magazine."
    I ran a hand down his long spine to rest it pointedly on the curve of his hip.
    "Hmm," he purred in agreement, smiling a small, private smile. "Speaking of which, I believe that our new hearthrug has been well and truly christened, and so what do you say we adjourn to a more traditional setting?"
    "By all means," I replied, watching him rise gracefully to his feet and hold out a hand to me. "That sounds like a wonderful plan."
    I took his hand and allowed him to draw me towards his bedroom. It had been an astounding couple of days but I felt no regret that our adventure was done, for already I felt sure that future years with Sherlock Holmes would prove to be just as eventful as those to date.
    * * * *
    There is no more left to tell, save for a couple of loose ends that need to be wound into the end of my tale.
    Helen Stoner was married to the excellent Percy Armitage not long after. They sold the house where she so nearly lost her life and moved to Surrey, whence she was kind enough to write to me to tell me how happy she is, and reiterate how grateful she was for my friend's assistance.
    Several months later I received a letter from The Strand to say that they were extremely interested in the first chapter of the Jefferson Hope case, which I had fancifully titled "A Study in Scarlet", after a casual remark by Holmes. I was overjoyed, and Holmes took me out to dinner at Marcini's to celebrate (and was kind enough to suppress any remarks on my writing style, on that occasion at least).
    Last, but by no means least, it was some weeks before I could once more look at our hearthrug without flushing. Holmes took full advantage of this fact, saying happily that he had never seen a soldier blush so easily, and drew my attention to it more often than was, strictly speaking, necessary. By coincidence, it was only a week or so later that Dr. Thorneycroft – another client – executed his dramatic collapse onto our hearthrug that I have mentioned elsewhere. I regret to say it, but my resulting leap from the chair was only partly motivated by the desire to help a fellow human in distress and more to get him off the cursed thing, and it was quite some time before Holmes could stop laughing at my mortification and be persuaded to help me.

THE ADVENTURE AT BASKERVILLE HALL

    "Who are you?" he demanded imperiously, his cheeks scarlet with the unnatural flush of fever. "I don't believe I know you, sir, and so I demand that you leave my room. I am not in a fit state to receive visitors, and you are monstrously impudent to come barging in here in such a fashion."
    Desperately, I caught his arm as he tried to rise. "Holmes, please, you must remain in bed. You are delirious."
    He glared at me suspiciously, his fever-bright eyes glittering. "How do you know my name? I repeat, who are you, and what right do you have to force your way in here?"
    And then he was beyond conversation. His illness had wasted him during the time that I had been away, and his flesh clung to his skull, making the deep shadows under his eyes stand out in horrific contrast to the stark pallor of his face. His black hair was wet with both sweat and the cool water I had been wiping over his forehead in a futile attempt to keep his temperature down and stop his body from burning itself up.
    He had sunk into delirium and when he roused himself it was only to fight me, for he could no longer tell friend from foe. His struggles were but weak, feeble flailings, exhausted as he was by the fever. Holmes had always been a fearsome fighter, and to see him reduced to this shadow of his former self broke my heart. The man I loved was dying before my eyes; I could not help him, nor was I permitted even to hold him in my arms as he–
    With a convulsive jerk I sat up in bed, gasping for breath, my hand flying out automatically to the place at my side. It was cold and empty, and it took a few anguished seconds before I remembered that I was not at Baker Street. Holmes was alive and well, I reminded myself, trying to control my short, panicked breaths. He was alive and in perfect health, or as perfect as it could ever be when he insisted upon his noxious habit of smoking strong ship's tobacco, and often going for days eating only the bare minimum required to keep body and soul together.
    Despite the chill, my nightshirt was damp with fear-sweat, and when I dragged a shaky hand down my face I