By Alia

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson were created by the late and great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. No disrespect is intended.

Summary: Some men lust after power, others after blood.

Rating: PG.

Author's Notes: Written for the 7 deadly sins community on live journal. Lust is prompt #6. Please keep in mind that this ficlet is unbetaed and contains Australian spelling. If you find a mistake then feel free to point it out to me.

Comments: Are welcome and can be sent


It was early during our association when Holmes first declared that he had never known love. Initially I pondered why he should share such a thing with me. Certainly we had agreed to share rooms, but were not yet friends. That was to change of course and within months of my arrival at Baker Street I was a regular companion on his many adventures and willingly sharing in the day to day concerns of his life - his earlier statement all but forgotten.

As with most new friendships Holmes began to ask more and more of me as our time together increased, not just my physical assistance during those cases that required the use of my service revolver, but my opinion on all manner of things as well. Often he would scold me for the slowness of my mind and my inability to see but not observe, but always he encouraged me to continue to refine the art of which he was the indisputable master.

I will not deny that I was flattered by Holmes' attention or even moderately impressed by his notoriety. Granted, some of his personal habits left a lot to be desired, yet he was not like any other man I had ever known and I found myself drawn to him in ways that were strange and unfamiliar to me. During the spring of 1889 however, when our friendship became something else, I was forced to reconsider exactly what Sherlock Holmes meant to me.

Although many years have past since the incident that changed what had been a most rewarding relationship with the great detective into something the law deems a crime, and the church an abomination, I recall it as if it were only yesterday. This is hardly surprising after all, as one is highly unlikely to forget the events leading to their fall from grace and into eternal damnation. It was also I who allowed the transgression and who has committed the whole thing to the darkest recesses of my memory for the safest of keeping. I dare not write a word about it beyond what is loosely transcribed here within the pages of my private journal for fear it be discovered and destroy us both, as I know is a fate that has befallen others in similar situations.

What I can say is that during the days prior to the one in question I saw Holmes only spasmodically. He had been working on a case that did not require my assistance and came rushing into our rooms at the oddest hours, appearing not at all himself, only to rush back out again a short while later. I was not, nor have I ever been made privy to the exact details, or the circumstances of how my friend first became involved in what was then his latest challenge, but I do know that it concerned some missing personal documents that before their disappearance had belonged to a gentleman of some standing in the community. Someone with whom I was acquainted, I assumed, which could be the only explanation for Holmes' uncharacteristic secrecy around me. I also know that Holmes's behaviour upon returning to our rooms after the apparent completion of the case was a direct result of what had been revealed to him and is why I will not make the same mistake as his unfortunate client.

In truth I had recognised the wide-eyed and flushed appearance that Holmes had wore during our brief exchanges throughout his mysterious dealings and then again on the evening he announced its conclusion. I had seen it before on others. On men prior to battle, and in the eyes of murderers only moments before they strike out at their unsuspecting victims. Seen, but not observed as he had so often accused me of in the past, until it was far too late.

I should make it perfectly clear that the bolting of our sitting room door and the frenzied attack on my person that followed Holmes's return to me that spring evening long ago was not without my consent or without a certain amount of satisfaction, nor has it been on any occasion since. Certainly Holmes is a man of passion, but as he had made a point of telling me, he had never known love prior to our meeting. What he omitted in sharing with me was that he has no intention of knowing it, then or at any time in the future.

Unlike others who lust after power and blood, he lusted after knowledge and the release that all men seek from time to time, but no more.

The fact that I have remained all these years since as his trusted friend and biographer is sufficient I would think to prove my ever lasting regard and acceptance of him and his terms. Of course with someone as unpredictable as Holmes I have found it necessary to renegotiate his terms many times, and tonight has been one of them.

Alone again now, the heath fire burning low and only the memory of his hands upon me to keep me warm, my mind wanders and my heart aches anew. I regret little of my life, only that I have loved a man worthy of all life has to offer and he has refused the same at every opportunity.



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