The world misconceives Holmes as an unemotional man, yet I cannot fault the world for this.   Sherlock Holmes is a master of disguise in matters not only physical, and he of all men is most keenly cognisant of the blinders upon the tack of humankind.   What he wants the world to see, it will.  As for the rest, dear readers, you must accept my word or go bereft.

The inner Holmes cannot be known through sight or voice; those protean traits are under the strict rein of their master and comport themselves entirely according to his fancy.  The true Holmes is revealed in covert ways, to senses of much more subtle distinction.  He may be felt as the taut lines of his body quiver beneath  my touch or soften to the silent behest of my patient tongue. 

He may be sensed the hot flush of blood as it races to places beyond even his volition to control and in the thrill of his pulse as his heart finally eases back to its resting pace underneath the weight of my sweaty cheek recovering upon his chest.  I can taste that Holmes in the air of our most private moments close together.  He saturates my nose, my pores; he fills my mouth every bit as fully as he fills my heart.

The world will never know the heady scent of him and how it thickens after we make love, nor the senseless words that spew forth from him as body unhinges from brain on the threshold of imminent release.  The word will never know the sweet weight of him hard and eager in my hand, nor the vestigial reflex by which the softest nibble of lips on nape may render the great detective a great puddle of pliant flesh and me a willing slave to do his bidding.

The world will never know these things, and so history will continue to record only that of him which Holmes wishes it to perceive.  Should I become of a mind to do so, I suppose I could unmask this dissemblance by way of my humble recordings--but I will not.

The world will never know Holmes as I do, and that suits me entirely fine.