The Trial for laurusalexandercrown
It was a fogging morning in early April of 1895 when I happened upon a discovery in the paper which would change the lives of Holmes and I forever. “Holmes?” “Yes love?” “Oscar Wilde's gone to trial.” Holmes paled. We'd known the controversy of his novel, “A Picture of Dorian Gray” had done enough to stir up unwanted attention around inverts, but accusing and jailing the man? This was an entirely different scenario. This would be in the papers every day from now on, until it ended. Holmes had delighted in that book—a rare occurrence when he chose to read fiction. “It's drivel, Watson,” he had scoffed to me, but yet he read the whole thing, and I could see the proud light in his eyes when he did. “What will we do?” I asked him. “I cannot predict the future, Watson,” Holmes said somberly, crossing his hands behind his back. “But I think we should wait this out at least a bit longer.” “If you think that is right,” I said, and I meant it. The week progressed painfully. During these strenuous days, most times Sherlock and I would not dare touch in public, afraid even to link arms as we usually did. It was difficult enough for us without this foolishness going on, but it seemed now every corner we turned someone was whispering excitedly of the condemned man. The papers spoke of him like a rat, and so did everyone else. If anyone around us brought up the matter (very few did, since Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson were all aware of our romantic relationship) we were silent on the matter. To support him would be unspeakable. We would be reported and dragged off—another excuse for a media frenzy. Holmes remained darkly cautious. He stiffly introduced me as colleague to his clients, something which stung every time he uttered it. He walked a distance from me on the street. He referred to me publicly (even in front of the Yarders) (especially in front of the Yarders) as only “Watson” or “Doctor.” No “My Dear Watson” or “My Boy” or “Dearest Doctor.” I knew Holmes did this to protect me, yet it still felt bitter. However, it did make those times alone at night, with the comfort of a locked door and an empty flat, all the more treasured. I did not realize how I suffocated without his touch until I had it once more. Our friends, though some understanding, were not “sodomites” themselves, and therefor did not speak of or reference the relationship between Holmes and myself in anyway. Even to those who knew it was a forbidden topic, a hidden fruit buried deeply beneath aristocratic shame. “John?” Holmes said one evening, after a particularly long day. “Yes my dear?” I said, putting down the yellow-backed novel I was reading. “I am very tired,” he sighed. “And I would just like to say your name and be near you without fear. I want this more than anything.” It was rare for him to become so sentimental. I may exaggerate his coldness in my stories to protect him from the public's eyes, but I did not fabricate it. “We mustn't be so ungrateful,” I said softly, gently pressing my hand against his cheek. His skin was cold. “We are together, aren't we? That alone is more than most.” “I know,” Sherlock said, leaning into the touch. “But I miss you.” “I miss you too.”
Two weeks into the trial Holmes decided we needed to flee London. “The police are taking more action than ever,” he said when he brought up the notion to leave to me. “It will only be a matter of time until we, as public figures, will be considered suspicious.” He was right. It was three days before we were to flee to Holmes's old University town that the paper had the two of us on the front. The headline read; “Famous Detective and Doctor Under Scrutiny”. “We must leave sooner than I thought,” Holmes said darkly. So we left that evening. Sherlock had written to his old friend, Victor Trevor, asking him if he would be willing to house them until the trial was over. Trevor, being Holmes's previous (and first) lover, understood and agreed. Of course I worried about lodging with someone Holmes was once attracted to, but upon meeting Trevor my perspectives changed. He was kind and welcoming to both of us, and it seemed he and Holmes remained on friendly terms. Though, evidently, I hadn't anything to concern myself with anyway. “I assure you, you having nothing to worry about, John,” Sherlock said. “My heart belongs only to you.” I believed him.
We stayed with Trevor until May, when Wilde was finally convicted. It was a relief. We both missed London, both missed Baker Street and Mrs Hudson and cases. I had thought Sherlock would die of boredom here, but he spent his hours going on long walks, many of which I joined, to hunt for rare specimens of botany. Though we both missed home, I could see that the fresh air and easiness of the last few weeks had been good to him. He looked less gaunt and thin, and he no longer had dark bags beneath his eyes. But when we finally arrived home again, and he could link his arm in mine, then, he looked happiest.
