A puff of smoke rises from his pipe - I can see it in the corner of my eye. Then, a rustle of fine burgundy cloth as he leaps to his feet, performs a full turn and positions himself with one elbow on the mantle, the pipe back between his sculpted lips and one fine-boned hand pitching a piece of paper - a telegram which arrived not five minutes ago- into the crackling fire.

I look up and have to smile in spite of myself. Vanity is most definitely one of his vices; one need only observe the abundance of mirrors in this sitting room. And yet, I am fairly certain that he is unaware of how much like a pose this stance of his looks. Well, if I have ever known a man suited to an existence as a fine marble sculpture, it is certainly my friend Holmes. God knows how he would keep still though...

"Watson!" He draws on his pipe fervently, his dark eyes glinting with something like joy.

"Yes, Holmes?" I ask, folding up the unread paper I've been hiding my gazes behind for some time now.

With this kind of enthusiasm in his voice, I imagine that any moment now, he will command me to dress and follow him on some investigation. I of course will protest, proclaiming to be otherwise occupied. In actual fact, I would of course follow him to the ends of the Earth. But that is not really the sort of thing I want him to know.

"Excellent news, Watson!" he declares with one of his brief smiles. "I trust you remember the Lady Brackenstall and her gallant sea captain?"

"Indeed I do," I tell him, carefully placing the paper I had been clutching on the floor beside my chair. "How could I forget either the beautiful damsel in distress or her chivalrous suitor?"

"Yes, of course..." Holmes waves away my words as though they are drifting into his eyes together with his pipe smoke.

Holmes rarely shows either interest in or acknowledgment of a woman's beauty, except for perhaps a passing remark with the kind of emotional detachment only he is capable of. However, this disinterest is something I am rather glad of, for if he were inclined to fall for the fair sex, he would likely come to appreciate they have been falling for him for years. Not a scenario that would bode well for my own peace of mind!

"We have just received a note from Lady Brackenstall, Watson. She informs us that as of last Saturday, she is Mrs Jack Crocker."

"What splendid news!" I exclaim, honestly glad for the young couple. The mutual regard and love with which they mastered their rather trying time a little over a year and a half ago makes this turn of events a happy one indeed.

"Quite so," Holmes agrees, and a trace of warmth manages to steal into his voice.

I cannot help but smile, once more wondering whether my dear friend is indeed as completely devoid of feelings as he wishes to appear. I wonder about this not merely on account of the public perception of him, but more selfishly on account of my... chances. When he is in a positive and almost buoyant mood as this, I am prone to insane notions of perhaps taking such a chance.

"What a lovely couple they make," I say, more to myself than to him.

"Hmm..." he murmurs thoughtfully. "Perhaps." He sits down and crosses his legs.

"Perhaps?" I ask, more surprised than I should be. "Do not tell me, Holmes, that you are quite as blind to beauty as that."

He gazes at me with that smile of his - it is a smile which lasts only long enough to upset my inner peace entirely. "Blind, Watson? No, not that. Beauty is something I may well observe, but it is of passing interest only."

I laugh. "Truly, Holmes? Then be so kind to tell me why there are quite so many mirrors in this room." The moment the words have passed my lips, I realize what I have just said. Heaven help me if he should have noticed!

This is Holmes - of course he noticed.

"Watson?"

"Where did the happy occasion take place?" I ask quickly, hoping against hope that I can distract him from my faux pas.

He frowns at me, assessing me like a particularly interesting piece of evidence. "The ceremony was performed by one of Captain Crocker's acquaintances - a fellow captain - on the high seas, I gather."

Neither his expression nor his voice hide the fact that his curiosity has been piqued, and I have only myself to blame.

"How romantic." I briefly consider using the letter opener by my elbow to cut out my tongue. Whoever said they could only be used as instruments of murder? Whatever was I thinking? To first speak of beauty and then of romance to Holmes...

"Romance is such a fickle pursuit," he says promptly, and before I can ask what he means by that, he continues. "Even the fairest creatures with the kindest of hearts possess, somewhere deep inside, a faculty for cruelty."

"What an astonishingly bad reception of such good news, Holmes, even for you!" I exclaim. "Why, you yourself facilitated the young couple's escape from the clutches of an inflexible justice system."

Holmes looks straight at me until I grow uncomfortable. His lips are pursed and his eyes narrowed. "Simply because I do not believe in something, Watson, who am I to deny others the discovery of its non-existence?"

I never realized that I've been leaning forward while he was talking until I slammed back into my chair. "By Jove, Holmes!"

"Coffee, Watson?" He stands and reaches for the bell, about to summon the trusty Mrs Hudson.

"Coffee, Watson?" I repeat. "Coffee, Watson!"

Holmes smiles kindly. "I apologize if I've upset you with my skepticism, Watson. I am certain that Captain Crocker and his wife will have a long, happy life together."

I look up at him standing there like he is made of ice. The most desirable creature I have ever been fortunate enough to call an acquaintance, let alone a friend, and he is made of ice. What extraordinarily bad luck!

"You are not."

"Not what, Watson?" he asks conversationally, settling back into his chair when it becomes clear that I am in no mood for coffee.

"Not certain at all. You are, in fact, quite certain that their and any other liaison must eventually fail." A frightful if apparently true assessment of my friend's feelings on the subject.

He shrugs. "I suppose there is always a margin for error."

"What infuriating smugness!" I exclaim, leaping to my feet before I can stop myself. Briefly, I think I may have insulted him, but one look at his barely suppressed smile tells me he has baited me and I have allowed myself to be baited. As always.

"Oh, damn you, Holmes!"

He barks out a harsh laugh and allows it to trail out in that sensuous, rumbling chuckle he allows me to hear far too rarely.

It pacifies me instantly, of course, and I cannot help but join him in his good humour.

"I do apologize, Watson, but I so enjoy setting your blood boiling."

My laughter dies in my throat. "You do," I say blandly.

"Most definitely." Holmes leans back, suckling on his pipe, his dispassionate eyes sliding over me.

Pained because he naturally did not mean it the way I would have liked, I turn away towards the fire-place, seeking a warmth from the glowing embers I would much rather find in the arms of my old friend.

"Watson?"

I do my very best to combat the melancholy which overcomes me with each of these setbacks, but Holmes' own silken voice does nothing to help.

"Watson, are you well?" he queries, and a sliver of warmth manages to force its way into my heart. I must be content with his concern for my well-being.

"I am fine, Holmes."

He would normally leave it at that - I know him well enough by now. But on this day, he stands and I feel rather than hear him approach me from behind. Holmes has a way of virtually gliding silently across the floor. He has, on more than one occasion, scared the living daylights out of me with his sudden spook-like appearance.

"Oh Watson," he says more softly than he usually speaks to me. "My apologies. I should not take such pleasure in teasing you."

"I very much doubt that you could do without that particular sport, Holmes," I say, wishing fervently that he should not hear the hurt in my voice.

But on this day, luck is not on my side. He is already continuing. Wherever did this sudden capacity for empathy come from?

"For you, my dear Watson, I shall banish it."

I smile but dare not turn to face him. Such gentle words combined with the precious sparkle I have so often observed in his dark eyes when he stands in front of the fire would certainly undo me. Heaven knows what sort of nonsense I might say to him!

"Hmm... I see you are determined to continue sulking then?" he asks, and this time, I glance back at him.

"Holmes..." I chuckle.

He's smiling quite brightly. How I wish he was in such good humour all the time!

"I do not sulk, Holmes."

He nods. "I fear you do, Watson. But no matter. If I have interpreted your earlier slip of the tongue correctly, I may know the cure."

"My earlier...?" I begin, only to find my breath catching as he steps closer. I tell myself that Holmes is about to lean over and add another log to the gently crackling fire, but his ink-dark eyes remain firmly fixed on mine.

"Slip of the tongue, Watson."

I perceive an odd little sound not unlike a gasp and realize it is my reaction to Holmes' sudden, immediate closeness. His proximity is such that I can taste the flavour of his tobacco on my lips and feel the softness of his hair against my own skin if I only try.

Needing to disperse this tension which has overcome me, I reach for the first topic to come to mind, choosing the most unfortunate one, of course.

"So you do not believe in the longevity of any romance, Holmes."

He sighs a little impatiently. "The circumstances would have to be very special indeed, Watson. But I do believe that any union, to have a fair chance of success, must be based on more than mutual attraction alone."

That does rather sound as though he has given the matter some thought after all. I should have known - Holmes has an educated opinion on any topic imagineable. And possibly on some we mere mortals would never dare to ponder.

"What do you consider a sensible basis for a romantic union then, Holmes?" I am delving into most dangerous territory but I fear that if I remain silent now, I will do so forever.

He chortles, disconcerting me a little, and I turn my face back towards the fire, expecting him to withhold a response. But not so.

"Well, my dear Watson..." I hear him puff on his pipe before he continues. "There must, first and foremost, be a good camaraderie. And a great deal of tolerance regarding one another's little idiosyncrasies."

I nod, smiling to myself. I must surely pass on those two counts - no one could ever be more tolerant in the face of Holmes' quirks than I, nor could our deep and long-standing friendship be denied.

"Mutual respect is a given pre-requisite, as is a capacity for understanding each individual's need for privacy."

Again, I must congratulate myself. If only Holmes realized how suitable we are for one another... Sighing, I await more.

"But there is something else that is quite indispensable when embarking on such a venture."

"And what would that be, Holmes?" I might as well find out all I can. This is a rare occasion after all - a discussion of such personal matters.

"Devotion."

I could not bear to hear him say the word which best describes my long-suffering and yet essential servitude whilst facing him, so I remain staring into the flames, instinctively raising and rubbing my hands together in the warm glow.

"I agree."

"Of course you do, my dear Watson."

There is a trace of humour in his voice and I begin to wonder if all of this is not more idle sport at my expense. I fear my faculties are limited when it comes to imagining Holmes suffering from devotion in the fashion that I do.

"If all these pre-requisites are met, then perhaps a romantic liaison would stand a chance," he concludes.

"Yes..." I murmur.

Suddenly unaccountably certain that Holmes is smiling as he stands there behind my back, I gather all my courage about myself to ask my next question. I will only ask this question once. If he avoids to respond to it, dismisses it outright or takes offence, I shall never ask it again.

"Holmes..."

"Yes, Watson?"

Turning and clearing my throat, I say, "Forgive me for asking this, Holmes. You are quite within your rights to tell me to mind my own business if you choose, but I feel I must ask in the interest of... our friendship."

He places his pipe down on the small round table by his armchair and says, "Please, ask away, Watson."

He is in an unusually communicative mood today!

"Have you yourself ever felt this way about a woman?"

He laughs out loud and I bite my lip. "No, Watson. Certainly not!"

But before I can apologize again for my damnable curiosity, he declares, "You really must learn how to gather evidence and conduct interviews in the way most suited to the exact information you require, Watson. Precision is everything."

I will not deny that I am rather confused by this. "My apologies, Holmes."

"No no, Watson. Let me answer the question you should have asked." He comes closer still and I can feel his warm breath caressing my face.

"Please," I manage to croak.

"Watson, I have never felt this way about a woman."

Surely he is jesting. He must be. Could I be dealt a fate as cruel as this? Could it be that Holmes is in actual fact... what I am, and yet he remains out of my reach forever?

"Oh."

He barks out a laugh. "Watson, my most respected and understanding friend, deduce, for heaven's sake!"

I draw a harsh breath for suddenly, my lungs appear to be constricted. "Holmes?"

His hands rest on my shoulders and he squeezes them reassuringly. By God - his spicy, Oriental cologne permeates every fiber of my being when he stands so close...

"You... do you mean to say that..." I mutter, growing hot and cold in turns.

"Watson, do you mean to say that after all this time, you still do not know how devoted I am to you?"

"I..." Tears are choking me and I consider it more cautious to remain silent.

"Should have known." Holmes finishes my utterance for me. "You are so intuitive, my dear friend. And I - in my lack of experience in expressing such things - have counted on this of your many skills to eventually lead you to the true nature of my regard for you."

"Oh, Holmes!" I turn away for I am certain that these irritating tears are now visible.

But Holmes turns me around and with a smile, takes my face in his hands. "No, John. We'll have no more hiding now."

"No," I agree, blinking a few times to disperse the embarrassing moisture in my eyes. "No more of that."

Holmes looks most satisfied that we are in agreement and - as though fearing that I may change my mind - he nods and puts on a stern air.

I cannot help but smile and his perfect face lights up again. "Would you like to kiss me, John?" he asks.

"A rather redundant question," I joke, and he decides to take the initiative.

His slender fingers draw my face closer still and then, his finely chiseled lips close over mine. So natural. So very easy. So inevitable.

My hands entangle in his long gown, seeking his warmth beneath as I return the kiss. And instantly, I am surrounded by Holmes in all his overwhelming presence. He fills all my senses and his larger than life personality takes possession of me. Holmes has never been simply a man, and with his arms around me, I feel the truth of that more than ever.

Obviously, I have already forgiven him for his earlier cruelty in teasing me so. And in time, I believe I will forgive myself for having been so slow to deduce.

I begin to say as much to Holmes as he leads me to his bedroom, but he silences me with one finger across my lips. "Shh, John. We have all the time in the world now - after all, that is the way with an everlasting romance."

I smile. It is indeed.