In The Doctor’s Hall (PG)

The oak room was the largest reading room on the second floor, but although it boasted several large windows that opened out onto the street, it was always dull and gloomy, for the heavy blinds were always drawn stiffly down. All the rooms in this deviant establishment were named for different species of tree, and the oak room seemed particularly aptly named, for it was clearly the king of all the others, even if it looked as though it had been struck by lightning, and been dead for many years.

Despite the appropriate nature of it’s name however, that’s not how any of the clientele ever referred to the large room on the second floor. No, to them it was the ‘Doctors’ Hall’, a place not strictly reserved for, but none-the-less almost entirely occupied by physicians. As a medical man myself, it was a particular type of haven, this room, a place where one could talk to a brother physician without him taking the line that homosexuality was a sickening disease. Or indeed, if he must persist in thinking it a disease (as some of the older men did), then at least one could talk to them without any fear of retribution from the law.

This particular day, as I stood outside the door of the Doctors’ Hall, I was in remarkably high spirits. I had thought I should have to spend the entire day crawling around the gutters of Southwark without a hope of dinner, as was Holmes’ wont yesterday. However this morning, he was up before I, and waved me off over his teacup to ‘my club’ for he ‘needed the day to think’.

I imagine had he known the precise nature of my club, it would have given him much to think about indeed.

I burst into the room cheerfully, to be greeted by five faces, all staring at me through the smoke haze. The long and sinuous Raoul smoking by the fireplace did his best to look amused to see me, but I confess I have never really liked the way he would look me up and down, so I ignored him. Jenkins, a much closer crony of mine was at the window, and he turned to look at me, and gave a suppressed little cough, before turning back to view the street through a crack in the blind. Old Turner, a doctor whose once prosperous surgery had afforded him the most easy of retirements, was seated in a decaying leather chair at the back of the room. He did not even deign to look up from the pages of the book he was reading. The last two occupants of the room were at the billiard table, not so much playing, as merely trying to roll the balls at each other’s knuckles in a game of dares of some sort. Ashcroft was the elder, a recently qualified physician who was struggling to set up in practice, but whom I suspect could receive a great amount of help if he were only to ask Turner in the right fashion. The younger was Michael, a medical student here in London. Quite why he wanted to keep company with a ‘load of old men’ (his words, not mine) when he had an entire college of young things he could be seducing I’ll never know.

I am not usually one for dramatic actions or remarks, but as I have previously mentioned, I was in a frightfully cheerful mood that morning. I hung my hat and stick up on the stand which leaned rather than stood next to the door, and gave them all a winning smile as I strode into the room.

“Well gentlemen! You wouldn’t all want a man to die would you?”

Raoul lazily uncurled himself from the fireplace, gave me a slightly unwarranted kiss on the cheek, before sinking down into a chair, and taking another drag on his cigarette.

Jenkins looked up in irritation from the window.

“What are you withering on about Watson?”

I could see in his eyes his friendship for me bore out his irritation, so I happily continued.

“I’m talking about the Hippocratic oath. It is your very duty to help me!”

Michael looked up from the billiard table.

“Someone’s about to die sir?”

“Oh, come off it Micky,” Ashcroft span a well-aimed ball at the youth’s knuckles, and Michael yelped. “He’s having you on. Aren’t you Dr. Watson?”

“No indeed Ashcroft – for it is my belief that a man may be in very serious danger of dying when he considers a day wading through the sewers of London a day well spent.”

“Mon dieu,” Raoul drawled from his chair “Is that how he treats you now?”, but Jenkins laughed, and turned away from the window.

“Right, I see. And exactly what cause do you give this mania?”

“Love!” I exclaimed, “Or the lack of it.” I happily dropped down into a wicker chair next to Raoul.
“Clearly it is the duty of every man here to advise me of how best to tell him that I love him.”

“For otherwise Holmes might die?” Ashcroft asked, with a grin, and a raised eyebrow.

“Hm! Let him die then, I say.” I gave Raoul an angry look, but the Frenchman simply smiled slickly,
“Dragged through sewers? I do hope you washed.”

Jenkins leant back, and settled himself on the windowsill. His amiable face shone with amusement. I have often thought that had I not fallen so completely for Holmes to the point of being able to see no other, then I might have found myself a satisfactory partner in Jenkins. I thought so again now.

“So, Watson. How on earth do you propose we help you? Heaven knows I’ve encouraged you to tell him enough times.”

“He’ll never tell him.” observed Ashcroft with a smile.

“I will! I will! I just need to get up the right encouragement.”

From the back of the room, Turner put his book down at last, and lifted his grey head up to regard us seriously.

“Tell him? And risk exposure? I advise you to find new lodgings now my boy, whilst your secret remains safe.”

Michael made a face.

“You would say that.”

“If you must persist with this inverted nature that plagues us all” Turner continued “why not find lodgings with a man of similar tastes? You will save yourself much anguish, and our ears from your complaining.”

I know my eyes must have flashed with anger at his candid remarks.

“Clearly you have never been in love, if you think such feelings can be dismissed so easily.”

“No,” replied Turner mildly, “I’m sure I have never loved. Good day gentlemen.”

We were quiet as the old doctor got up and stalked out of the room, taking his book with him, but all seemed quite happy to continue discussing my situation once he had taken his leave.

“I think,” Michael said loudly “You should just tell him straight, and devil take hindmost.” He sprung away from the billiard table, and began to act out my part. “Mr. Holmes. I cannot deny my feelings any longer – I love you. I think about you every day.” he clutched one hand to his breast, and swooped his other arm out to his audience theatrically “You are the first thing I think about when I wake in the morning, and the last thing I think about before I go to bed… ahh, mmmfgh!”

Ashcroft had leapt up, and had silenced the youth with a hand clamped over his mouth, and was proceeding to try and suffocate him in the most loving way possible.

“Shut up, you girl!” A pause, then an impish grin came over Ashcroft’s features. “How about ‘I think about you before I go to bed, and I feel the need to…”

“Yes, alright Ashcroft!” interrupted Jenkins, no doubt seeing the heat I was beginning to feel under my collar. “We all know where you are going with that one, thank you!”

“Though quite why you feel the need where Holmes is concerned, I shall never know.” said Raoul, lazily. “Ugh, far too pale, and that nose!”

“Oh really.” I replied angrily, glad to get the conversation away from needs and Holmes in anyway possible. “And what do you suggest I do about it?”

Raoul gave me his best smirk, the one that I had to do my hardest to not find attractive.

“Why… do they not say French is the language of love? I recall that you once told me Holmes had some of our blood in him. I should simply tell him ‘je t’aime’.” Raoul cracked a slow sinister smile. “In fact maybe I should do so myself, merely to see if I can succeed where you cannot.”

I decided to ignore his goading.

“Actually, that idea has merit.” I said with forced cheerfulness. “My schoolboy French being in the state that it is, I should have to wait several years while I learn it in sufficient depth to tell him exactly how I feel. And that would delightfully postpone the agony of actually telling him!”

Ashcroft and Michael laughed at this, but Jenkins sighed, and walked back over to the window.

“You know Watson, I think the one in danger of dying here is you. You just can’t go on living like this you know. I think Turner has a point – either you tell him, or you get out. The heart is a fragile thing you know. Be careful you don’t break yours.”

“I know,” I replied in exasperation, “But what am I meant to do? I positively adore the man! He came into my life when I had absolutely nothing else left, and gave me meaning. I’m not sure I know who I am without him! But to tell him… he who so clearly abhors the softer emotions… How can I have any hope? He can’t even bear the regard of a woman, so how would he feel about that of a man?”

Jenkins was peering out of the window, and his voice came back to me softly.

“Well. I guess this is your chance to find out. Because he’s coming. Here.”
“What?!“

Somehow I found myself on my feet. I gazed dizzily at Jenkin’s silhouette against the light of the window, as he pulled the blind back to get a clearer view.

“Oh, yes. That’s him alright.”

“No…”

I collapsed back into my chair, my legs weak. A cold sort of pain spread across the top of my head, and my hands shook uncontrollably.

At the window, Jenkins learned forward. “He’s just gone through the front door.” He span round, and turned to face me with glee. “This is it Watson! This is your chance!”

“No. Oh, no.”

“Oh yes!”

“But I can’t even stand up…” I wailed in protest, but the instant I did, Ashcroft and Michael were either side of me, heaving me to my feet.

“Get him downstairs!”

“For God’s sake, stop this!” The two young doctors moved me bodily towards the door. Raoul got up, and
with the most evil of his wry smiles, opened it, and bowed me through as Ashcroft and Michael pushed me into the landing beyond. I deliberately dragged my heels as they pushed me through hall, scuffing up all the carpets. Jenkins matter-of-factly shut the door behind us.

“Don’t let go of him.” he advised the others, sternly.

“Have you taken complete leave of your senses?” I yelled, as they pulled me down the stairs. “He’ll hate me! He’ll kill me! He’s probably here on a case, and he’ll go mad and shoot us all! He’s probably high on something, and doesn’t even know where he is! Oh God, he’s going to kick me out, and he’s going to hate me!”

Raoul was calmly following us down the stairs as the others struggled to keep me contained.

“But Dr. Watson, ” he droned “You wouldn’t want a man to die would you?”

“He’s right Watson,” Jenkins cried, clearly taking a perverse pleasure in torturing me, as much as I was taking a perverse pleasure in attempting to put my foot under his ribs at that very moment. “By your own admission, Holmes’ life depends on you telling him that you love him!”

They had nearly got me all the way down the stairs, and to the door of the main bar, where no doubt Holmes was now loitering, trying to pick up some vital clue from the inverts gathered there. I fought as hard as I could, but I could hardly prevail against three full-grown men – three men who were friends, and I therefore could not injure.

“My war wound!” I howled “You are taking advantage of a cripple!”

“Oh, please.” said Raoul as he slipped around us to open the door. “You love it.”

With one final struggle they pushed me through, and then I knew all was lost, and I gave up the fight. I shook myself out of their hands, and stumbled into the room.

Clearly the entire bar had heard our noisy descent, and no doubt my pathetic protests as well. Every man’s attention was firmly fixed upon me, from those propping up the bar, to those sitting at tables playing cards. Every single pair of eyes was turned onto me, staring with a mixture of horror, and wild fascination.

There was only one man who wasn’t looking at me. He sat at the bar, a cut crystal glass of brandy in one hand. I had a long chance to examine his profile, and if there was any hope in my heart that Jenkins had been mistaken it was crushed now. It was surely Holmes. I knew the outline of his aquiline features perfectly. I knew that old black coat, and I knew that top hat, just as I knew the slender black cane he had in the crook of his arm, and the leather gloves that lay on the bar. Under my gaze me removed his hat, and placed it to the right of his glass. The whole room seemed to hold their breaths, as he slowly turned, and gave me the most perfectly mischievous smile I have ever seen. I thought my heart would melt.

“My dear Watson. Pray come take a seat next to me.”

He patted the bar stool to his left, and somehow I shakily moved over. He wasn’t angry. That was a good sign, surely. Sometimes it was very difficult to tell with Holmes.

I sat down next to him.

“What on earth are you doing here?” I hissed, but he chose to ignore me.

“Can I buy you a drink? Another whisky please bartender, I’m afraid my friend here has need to settle his nerves.”

“Holmes, what’s going on?”

“Curious weather today, isn’t?”

I looked back at my friends for reassurance. Raoul leant against the wall almost in disinterest, but Ashcroft and Michael were clutching at each other in suspense, and Jenkins was gesticulating wildly, and mouthing the words ‘tell him’ at me, over and over.

I turned back to the bar, feeling as though I was floating, and oddly not myself at all, as though I were watching somebody else play out my actions for me. I reached for my glass, and downed my drink in one. In this detached mood I might do or say anything I realised. The thought both excited and terrified me.

I cleared my throat. I felt all the occupants of the room lean in closer.

“Holmes. Well. I mean, no doubt you are here searching for some clue, or something. I mean, not that I am saying that the patrons of this bar belong in the sewer! I, ah. This isn’t going well. Um, I’ll start again.” I felt every single capillary in my face suddenly bloom into the most magnificent blush which would have probably been quite attractive on a young woman, but hardly befitted a mustached man in his thirties. “You’re here. And I’m here. And you are most likely here on official business, and I’m, ah, decidedly not. And this poses quite a difficult problem because my err… colleagues… think that this makes it a perfect time to tell you, um, things which would otherwise be, well. Hidden.”

Holmes turned to face me. I could barely dare to look up at him, but when I finally raised my eyes, I saw an amused smile on his face, not fear nor anger. He swiftly downed his own drink, then languished across the bar between us, cupping his chin in his hand. He was almost idyll as he reached his free hand up, and my skin leapt as his long fingers stroked my cheek, before burying themselves in my hair.

“Holmes.” I confess I gasped. I am not sure what I was most surprised at, his actions, or my own words. “I love you.”

“Mmm, of course you do.” he replied, with a wicked flash of white teeth. “I have known this to be solid fact for precisely eight months, though I must confess I was rather more slow to draw the obvious conclusion given that it involved myself. Your inverted nature of course, I have known for far longer, which even you yourself must realised I easily deduced from…”

“Holmes.” I found myself interrupting him. “Much as I am an avid fan of your methods, I have no desire hear all about them at this particular moment in time.” Before I knew what I was doing, I had reached out and grabbed him by the collar, and would have dragged him in roughly for a kiss if I had not have spied a thin gold chain around his neck – a chain I could have previously sworn I had only ever seen the peculiar old Turner wearing before.

“Good God! Holmes – surely not… but you can’t have?!”

“Watson, as much as I am an avid fan of your bumbling confessions of admiration, I really do have no desire to hear about them at this particular moment in time.”

And he closed the gap between us.

FIN