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One such industrialist and regular customer was Thomas Waverly. A brewer by trade, he owned two large breweries up in the industrial north and a smaller operation in the city.

Waverly beer was popular and cheep, our establishment was one of many which helped to make Waverly a very rich man. He was fond of John, mainly on account of having a very painful bunion successfully removed by my friend’s skilful hand. He was also rather fond of Mycroft Holmes, who, under our influence, had become a much more sociable person. He frequented our bar almost as much as the Diogenes and spent many a happy hour discussing affairs of the world with the uneducated but intelligent Mr Waverly.

On one such occasion, as they sat at the bar surrounded by other regulars, it was decided that a grand party should be thrown to celebrate Doctor Watson’s impending thirty-seventh birthday.

John was currently the talk of London due to his recently-published, highly acclaimed, study into blood disorders. Waverly offered the grand ballroom at his ostentatious London mansion.

I embraced the task of organising the event wholeheartedly, making myself so busy that I did not have time to dwell on my alarming new feelings which were inappropriate, unlikely ever to be reciprocated and which felt like a terrible betrayal.

In anticipation of a very busy day and night ahead, I decided to retire early the night before John’s birthday. We were in the sitting room together; John in the armchair reading the paper while I sat curled upon the settee reading a pamphlet from one of our medical suppliers. Occasionally I would look over to him and question the need for, and function of, a specific tablet or potion, but mostly we just sat quietly together comfortable in each other’s company. Finally, I rose and announced my departure for bed. John put down his book and looked at me.

“So soon?”

“We have a long day ahead.”

He stood from his chair and walked towards me with an earnest expression upon his face.

“Will you be dancing at the party?”

I laughed at such a suggestion.

“No! Of course not. I don’t, can’t dance.”

“Not at all? Surely you must be able to dance a little?”

“It’s not the sort of thing they teach you in the workhouse.”

“Well then, I shall teach you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous John. I’m going to bed.”

“Please, surely you won’t deny me a dance on my birthday? Truth is; I’m rather nervous about tomorrow. I’m not being ungrateful of course, but I know how much Waverly enjoys a party and he’s probably invited most of London.

“Being with you gives me confidence. You have been behind everything I have achieved since you came to this house and I hope that you will always be behind me whatever I do. Your support means so much Red, please indulge me a little and dance with me tomorrow night. It will help me relax.”

I sighed and felt a thrill at the prospect of physical contact but was anxious lest I betray my feelings. He stood in front of me and I felt my heart starting to pound.

“Honestly, I really do think I should go to bed it’s been...”

“Just rest your hand here, on my shoulder. Go on, that’s it. Now, take my hand.”

I did as he asked, my hand resting on his shoulder while I placed my other hand in his own. He pulled me towards him.

“Now, just follow my lead.”

“Is it any wonder I don’t like dancing?” I quipped, trying yet again to diffuse an intimate situation.

“Now, as I step forward,” his leg started to push against my own, bringing us even closer together, “you step back.”

I did as he asked and followed his next step in the same way, instinctively looking down at my feet.

“No, don’t watch your feet. Look up, look at me,” John insisted and I obeyed.

I looked up and wisps of mahogany curls fell over my eyes. I flicked them aside and realised how very close we were, our faces almost touching.

“Not much to look at I know,” he said, “a few lines, a few grey hairs.”

I looked into his lovely smoky eyes.

“That’s not what I see at all,” I said softly.

I could feel my face becoming hot. My heart was racing and I needed to break eye contact. I leaned in closer resting my head against his shoulder and he responded by lowering his head and resting his warm cheek against my own. We were just swaying together now, moving against each other slowly and keeping time with non-existent music.

I squeezed his hand. It was an involuntary reflex. His arm was fully around my waist now and he used it to draw me as close to him as he could, pressing his face tightly against my own. He was sweating. His hand felt moist as it gripped mine.

The whole moment was suddenly halted by Sandy barking like a maniac in the doorway.

We pulled away from each other, jolted back to reality which was a huge relief for me. I was losing myself to fantasy, surely misinterpreting the kind, almost fatherly act of a mature man, a widower, teaching a few dance steps to a young woman who had not been given the opportunity to learn such things before.

“Sandy, quiet! Did you feed him earlier?”

“No, I presumed you had.”

“Oh for goodness sake.”

I bustled over to Sandy and fussed him, giving me a chance to regain my composure and take a deep calming breath.

“Let’s sort out your food, old boy,” I said, hoisting him into my arms and taking him off into the kitchen.

As Sandy greedily tucked into a bowl of left-overs, I leaned back against the kitchen door and re-lived the whole thing over and over in my mind. Could there be a chance, a possibility of mutual attraction?

By the time Sandy was licking up the last of his dinner I had calmed myself enough to dismiss any such notions and admit with a heavy heart that John Watson saw me as a friend, nothing more. Even if there was a small spark of attraction he would never pursue it, not with someone so young and having a past such as mine. I was making a fool of myself and it had to stop before he noticed and I ruined a great friendship.

Chapter Eighteen

When the following evening came, John put on his finest suit and strode into our sitting room where I was dressed and waiting for him. Though I had never been interested in clothes, on this occasion I decided a grand effort was called for and had a dress made for me, it was emerald green velvet and trimmed with black lace. I even pinned up my hair but still left plenty of wayward curls free to fall about my face and shoulders.

I looked up as John entered the room wearing a black tail coat with an emerald green cummerbund. He was full of confidence, thirty-seven years old, the city at his feet. I felt a twinge of sadness wondering if, soon, a wealthy lady befitting his new status would claim him for herself and the London elite would swallow him up.

He took my hand. “You are truly beautiful Red. I shall be the proudest man in the room to have your company.”

“What nonsense, it’s only me John, just buried under an expensive frock.” I pulled my hand away sharply, embarrassed by his words and the way they made me feel.

“I owe you so much. None of this would have happened without you, even regaining my brother after all these years. I shall forever be in your debt.” His eyes held my gaze intently but it was all too much for me.

I grabbed at Holmes’ ring, as always on my neck chain. “Come on, we’ll be late,” I snapped. He looked a little crestfallen so I poked his arm in a matey, jocular manner. “You’re a good friend John,” I muttered, hoping this would disguise any feelings my blushes might betray.

“Doctor John H Watson and Miss Red,” the announcer called out as we descended the steps into Waverly’s very ornate ballroom. The assembled guests all turned to face us and the band launched into “Happy Birthday” which everyone started to sing with gusto. John was a little embarrassed at first then started to relax, enjoying such a rapturous welcome. I felt suddenly awkward, standing there holding his arm. Who was I? Not a lover or wife, just a friend, the one who kept the books.

There was a room full of wealthy women all staring up at him in adulation, the type of women he truly deserved, a conventional, suitable match befitting his success. I was so inappropriate for him in every way. I was part of his past now and not the glittering future which surely lay ahead. It was time to let go, to step aside.

He laid his hand on mine as I held his arm and I pulled away, snatched back my hand and walked down the steps to join his audience just as they burst into a round of “For he’s a jolly good fellow”. I joined in, became just another person in the crowd. I could still feel where his hand had touched mine, could still feel his warmth. I headed off quickly to find the champagne.

After the initial reception and dancing we were called through to a lavish dinner in Waverly’s grand dining room during which John was placed next to Waverly’s eldest daughter Caroline.

After dinner, we all returned to the ballroom for dancing and drinking which continued until the early hours. I have always thought women look rather pathetic while they dance; giggling away like children while their partner ogles their cleavage. I was happy to just stand back and watch everyone else take part.

Caroline Waverly had the most awful laugh. It was typically upper class, false, loud and brash. She drank copiously and was clearly encouraging John to do the same all through dinner. She laughed at his witticisms regardless of whether they were funny or not. When they danced together afterwards, it was there again, that terrible sound half way between a braying horse and a squeaking gate.

Mycroft informed me that Caroline was a widow and doted on by her father. Her husband had been minor aristocracy and was killed while hunting in Africa. He had left her a healthy inheritance. She was also her father’s heir as Waverly did not have a son. Therefore, Caroline was a wealthy woman, crass and spoilt, but wealthy.

Her father was born a factory worker’s son and had worked tirelessly to improve his circumstances and expand his mind. This made him a very likeable man, wise, and able to appreciate all he had. His daughters had only known wealth and privilege. They lacked their father’s depth, sensitivity and intelligence.

I disliked Caroline immensely and hoped that I would never have to see her again.

I left John alone for most of the evening to enjoy his guests and also in the hope of taking control of my feelings. I spent the evening in the company of Ronnie, Mycroft and the rest of my diverse and eccentric array of acquaintances. John did not approach me and ask for a dance, which was quite a relief, albeit rather unexpected in light of his insistence the previous evening.

I was surprised when Waverly approached me at midnight to inform me that John would be staying overnight as his guest. He graciously offered me the use of his carriage and driver to take me home. I declined and shared a hansom with Ronnie instead, deciding that he was now so drunk that he needed an escort to ensure he returned to the pub safely.

I got back to the homely little house I shared with my friend and realised it was the first night we had not slept under the same roof since he had brought me there. But why shouldn’t he enjoy his success? Surely this is what he had always wanted, to achieve things and be admired in his own right. Savour the praise of the city after all those years of being the forgotten child and the much-criticised friend of a far more successful man.

John really was the perfect man to befriend Holmes, able to accept all that criticism so well yet be infinitely patient and loyal.

I lay in bed listening to the sounds of the empty house, fully convinced that my friend’s snoring would reverberate as usual by the following night.

Morning came and I went to the surgery. I bustled into John’s consulting room with an arm full of invoices to go through and was surprised to find the room vacant.

Doctor Roy appeared in the doorway.

“Not coming in today, asked me to take his list.” He informed me.

“Oh, is he at the hospital?”

“Don’t know, didn’t say. Sounded a little inebriated, if you ask me.”

With that parting comment Roy set off to ready himself for a long day with a greatly increased workload. I returned to my office, hoisted Sandy up to his favourite spot on the corner of my desk where the sunlight settled. It was most unlike John to neglect his medical duties but I concluded that he just needed to sleep off a heavy night. He was entitled to a day off.

I looked forward to him coming home that night and telling me all about his adventures at the party, especially being forced to sit next to that ghastly woman at dinner.

But John didn’t return that night and it was four nights later when I heard his key at the door very late in the evening.

I heard him drop his keys once inside the hall, a jangling metallic sound piercing the quiet as they fell upon the tiled floor. Then I heard him bump into the hall table knocking the vase of flowers which stood upon it and sending them crashing to the floor. I got out of bed and ran downstairs turning up the gas light at the bottom to see the full extent of the newly created mess. There stood John Watson, thoroughly drunk, bleary eyed and dishevelled, looking down at the shattered fragments in confusion.

“Where the hell have you been? Doctor Roy has been left with an intolerable workload. I haven’t heard from you at all.”

John rubbed his eyes and looked at me shakily.

“Well, I’ve been at Waverly’s. I did tell Roy, thought you knew. Besides, bit of hard work won’t hurt the old boy,” he slurred, pushing around a few broken pieces of vase with his foot.

“What about me? I was concerned,” I said, as he swayed and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t even read.

“I’m going to bed,” he finally said, rather sadly I felt, and pushed his way past me to attempt to ascend the stairs. I just stood there, surrounded by broken porcelain and dislodged furniture watching as he struggled up the stairs.

“What’s happened to you?” I asked but he did not reply.

John did put in an appearance at the practice the following day, but was gone by early afternoon. He didn’t return to our house until very late that evening.

His usual friends hardly saw John in the weeks following his birthday party. He would occasionally turn up at work, at Ronnie’s or, very rarely, at home, always a little worse for wear. As the weeks passed, I noticed that I was the person he saw least of all.

I sat on the stairs one night, alone in the house yet again, writing pad on one knee and Sandy’s head draped over the other. I stroked his soft velvet fur and let a tear fall onto his silky head. It was time to say goodbye to what had been a blissful union, a most happy period in my life. Sharing a cosy house with a dear friend and striving to heal together, to create happiness out of pain and tragedy. This we had done, now it was time to leave John Watson to find his own way in the world as this was what he so clearly wanted. The healing process was over for him and it was time for me to let him go. I began to write, my heart full of sadness but my mind assured that this was the right course of action.