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To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his.
I have read that passage more than I care to admit. It is unsettling, really, to know that one is never fully known, even to one’s only and closest companion. To be so clever that I can deceive anyone I wish, and no one will be the wiser. I had often dreamt of him storming in one night, telling me to ‘drop the act and own up,’ that he would see through it all and know how I truly felt. But he never did. Whenever I would catch myself daydreaming foolishly, or wake up having dreamt of him, I read this passage. To my dear Watson, it was not conceivable that I could love. It went against everything I projected, and had this very article been written by another I would have felt pleased once and never thought of it again. However, my one and only friend, believing in what I had tried for years to believe about myself - it sat painfully cold in my chest like a disease.
He was right, you know. It was horribly disturbing to find this strong emotion had arisen without my consent. I suddenly found myself plummeting into despair at a trifle, and back into rapture at the same. I was extraordinarily careful about my behaviour, so there is every reason for my friend to not have picked up on it. Yet, I recall a few times I toyed with danger and let some truth slip. He did not see, of course. You see, although Dr. Watson believed Ms. Adler to be the would-be love I never surrendered to, she was not. She was a worthy adversary, with cunning and wit I never anticipated. She taught me not to underestimate the fairer sex, as I had and she used to my detriment. Ms. Adler represents what women are capable of, that they can be intelligent and willy enough to fool even, if I may be so bold, a man of above-average abilities, and it is a lesson I must remain well aware of. However, I could not have loved her. She sparked interest in me, but no emotion. She was aesthetically lovely, but her form held no captivation for me but the passing appreciation one would give a well-made work of art.
I believe I have been extraordinarily plain, but as my dear Watson has repeatedly demonstrated, plain for me is quite hidden from the eyes of others. He never questioned why I took him along on my cases when he rarely gave actual insight. Why, then, did I? Because his presence made the game much more exciting and vibrant. The colours seemed brighter, the wind sweeter, and I could feel my heart swell when I had impressed him with my deductions, even after he had seen them many a time. It is plain as the brightest day, is it not?
~ ~ ~
"Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked after we had sat some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective."
He gave a most dismal groan.
"I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you."
I was a little hurt.
"Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" I asked.
"Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that may witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment."
"I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the ordeal. But you look weary."
"Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week."
"Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigour."
At the revelation of this distressing news, I had once thought I had revealed myself to my companion. The weariness that overtakes me once a strenuous case is completed had dulled my inhibitions the slightest, and my groan he remarks upon was wholly involuntary. I will admit once I read his retelling, I was filled with bitter pride at having hurt him. I was filled with remorse later, but there is still a small part of me grateful that after he should have struck so painful a blow in me, that I should have had my own retaliation, if slight. I realized it had been foolish of me to believe he would never marry, that he would share my flat forever, but I had not thought on it long until Ms. Morstan’s appearance. As soon as Watson had met her, he had been taken with her. It was inevitable they would marry, unless the fortune left to her was reclaimed. I admit to redoubling my efforts to retrieve it once I realized, but the fortune was lost and they were to be wed. But if Watson was determined to marry, Ms. Morstan was preferable to most.
What I said was true, or, at least, had been. Reason is the ultimate, but I am burdened with the limitations of humanity and emotions have proven to be not easily shaken. And I will never marry. The demands of a wife and children abhor me. In addition, they would limit my scope and be easy targets for any enemies I happened to acquire. I have never wanted them, and because I had never wanted them, I had assumed I would never love. Even I am wrong upon occasion.
I spent many years willing the dreaded emotion away to no avail. It remains strong as ever. Occasionally I forget, in the midst of a case on my own, only to be painfully reminded of the one for whom I feel this terrible affection. I know that if it were ever to be revealed I should be reviled in the eyes of society, and my weakness would be preyed upon by my enemies and he would be in mortal danger. His respectability would be questioned, for the time in which we shared dwellings. My only assurance is that if I am careful it will never be discovered, for my acting talents far surpass the observational skills of most. While I affect the temperament of the ideal logical reasoner I had once hoped to be, and he remains married to his wife, none will be the wiser.
No one will ever know that I, Sherlock Holmes, love Doctor John Watson.
~ ~ ~
If anyone had happened to be in 221b Baker Street that night, they would have seen the great consulting detective sitting at a desk for hours, pouring over a scrap of paper. After he had completed it to his satisfaction, he read it again once. Then Sherlock Holmes rose from his seat with purpose, and strode to the fire. He crouched over it and held the paper aloft, so it caught flame. He held it as long as it would not burn his hand, then dropped it into the fire and watched it disintegrate completely. Once it was turned to unrecognizable ash, the man strode back to his desk and opened a drawer. He pulled out a syringe and selected a vial. Then he arranged himself on the chair and dosed his veins with the medication with a practiced hand. His face was an unreadable mask during these proceedings, and he did not speak a word.