despite the alluring vision in front of me, "it was your idea."
"Yes, I suppose it was."
The bed shifted as he roused himself enough to remove the rest of his clothes, and then he was pulling me into his arms, his long form settling itself against me as he encouraged me to find a more comfortable position for sleep than face-down with my head twisted at an awkward angle.
"Tell me ... when did you learn to speak Italian?" I breathed into his neck. I was utterly spent but unwilling to sleep just yet, and now seemed an opportune moment to fulfil the promise I had made myself. For when he had so easily deciphered the warning sent by Gennaro Lucca I had decided that I would have more information on this capability, as it was a skill I never knew he possessed. His fingers carded gently through my hair.
"During my years away from London, I wandered quite extensively throughout the Continent. I had rudimentary Italian before, of course, but there is nothing like living in a country for several months to improve your command of the language."
We did not often speak of the years following his supposed death. It was a series of painful memories for us both, and I had no wish to bring it up now, so instead I requested, "Say something in Italian."
His surprised laugh shook his chest where it was pressed against mine. "What would you like to hear?"
"Anything," I murmured sleepily. "Just tell me something."
" Ti amo ," he whispered.
This was close enough to the French that he sometimes used in passionate moments that I could guess the meaning, and I smiled contentedly as my fingers traced the delicate lines of his shoulder blades. He kissed my forehead and pulled a blanket over us as he continued.
" Mi hai incuriosito fin dal primo momento in cui ti ho incontrato. Sei l'uomo migliore che io abbia mai incontrato. Il mio unico desiderio è di passare il resto dei miei giorni in tua compagnia, cuore mio ."
Beautiful though the syllables sounded, rippling fluidly from his lips, I did not understand a word of it. But as I surrendered at last to sleep and felt his thumb smoothing my hair back from my forehead, my last thought was that I could probably deduce his intentions all the same.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE THING FROM WHITECHAPEL
I feel I can safely say that the list that I compiled concerning Sherlock Holmes, in the early days of our acquaintance, has now become somewhat famous, if not infamous. It has certainly achieved notoriety at 221B Baker Street; after it appeared in The Strand it was several weeks before Holmes exhausted his store of sarcastic comments and I heard the end of it from my friend. However, in this private memoir composed only for myself, and liable to be incinerated upon completion, I feel I can be more detailed in my observations upon the man. Additionally, as I am determined to keep nothing back from these pages, I am forced to admit that the events I describe here were so very unexpected and yet so crucial to my relationship with Holmes that I cannot resist the temptation to go over them once more in writing, as I have done so often in my mind.
To resume – had I waited a short while longer before making 'That List' (with which scathing term it is always referred to by its object), I would have been able to state conclusively that Sherlock Holmes rarely eats breakfast. As far as I have observed, he prefers to start the day with only a cup of devilishly strong coffee, unless I am able to persuade him to join me at the breakfast table by means of bribery or threats. As a doctor, I have always had a wide variety of dire medical warnings available to me, but since the recent change in our relationship I have found, with gratified amusement, that I now have a whole new range of bribery material at my disposal, beyond previous offers to refrain from complaining about the state of our sitting-room.
Holmes claims that in the new century increasing numbers of people will adopt such habits, but as a medical man I
"Yes, I suppose it was."
The bed shifted as he roused himself enough to remove the rest of his clothes, and then he was pulling me into his arms, his long form settling itself against me as he encouraged me to find a more comfortable position for sleep than face-down with my head twisted at an awkward angle.
"Tell me ... when did you learn to speak Italian?" I breathed into his neck. I was utterly spent but unwilling to sleep just yet, and now seemed an opportune moment to fulfil the promise I had made myself. For when he had so easily deciphered the warning sent by Gennaro Lucca I had decided that I would have more information on this capability, as it was a skill I never knew he possessed. His fingers carded gently through my hair.
"During my years away from London, I wandered quite extensively throughout the Continent. I had rudimentary Italian before, of course, but there is nothing like living in a country for several months to improve your command of the language."
We did not often speak of the years following his supposed death. It was a series of painful memories for us both, and I had no wish to bring it up now, so instead I requested, "Say something in Italian."
His surprised laugh shook his chest where it was pressed against mine. "What would you like to hear?"
"Anything," I murmured sleepily. "Just tell me something."
" Ti amo ," he whispered.
This was close enough to the French that he sometimes used in passionate moments that I could guess the meaning, and I smiled contentedly as my fingers traced the delicate lines of his shoulder blades. He kissed my forehead and pulled a blanket over us as he continued.
" Mi hai incuriosito fin dal primo momento in cui ti ho incontrato. Sei l'uomo migliore che io abbia mai incontrato. Il mio unico desiderio è di passare il resto dei miei giorni in tua compagnia, cuore mio ."
Beautiful though the syllables sounded, rippling fluidly from his lips, I did not understand a word of it. But as I surrendered at last to sleep and felt his thumb smoothing my hair back from my forehead, my last thought was that I could probably deduce his intentions all the same.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE THING FROM WHITECHAPEL
I feel I can safely say that the list that I compiled concerning Sherlock Holmes, in the early days of our acquaintance, has now become somewhat famous, if not infamous. It has certainly achieved notoriety at 221B Baker Street; after it appeared in The Strand it was several weeks before Holmes exhausted his store of sarcastic comments and I heard the end of it from my friend. However, in this private memoir composed only for myself, and liable to be incinerated upon completion, I feel I can be more detailed in my observations upon the man. Additionally, as I am determined to keep nothing back from these pages, I am forced to admit that the events I describe here were so very unexpected and yet so crucial to my relationship with Holmes that I cannot resist the temptation to go over them once more in writing, as I have done so often in my mind.
To resume – had I waited a short while longer before making 'That List' (with which scathing term it is always referred to by its object), I would have been able to state conclusively that Sherlock Holmes rarely eats breakfast. As far as I have observed, he prefers to start the day with only a cup of devilishly strong coffee, unless I am able to persuade him to join me at the breakfast table by means of bribery or threats. As a doctor, I have always had a wide variety of dire medical warnings available to me, but since the recent change in our relationship I have found, with gratified amusement, that I now have a whole new range of bribery material at my disposal, beyond previous offers to refrain from complaining about the state of our sitting-room.
Holmes claims that in the new century increasing numbers of people will adopt such habits, but as a medical man I
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