Dr. John H. Watson

I had just returned from the house of Mrs. Willacre, whose husband had been shot in the arm the previous night by a depraved burglar. It had not been a very difficult job, but I had felt compelled to go, as I had not moved much from Baker Street for the past few weeks, preferring my days beside the fire. Furthermore, since the wife would not bring the injured and Baker Street having been emptied even by the landlady, leaving no one in the house but me, my boredom threshold had been reached and demanded to be resolved. And so I had ventured outside to meet Mrs. Willacre's call, as I also could no sooner leave a patient in need than I could hack off my own leg.

Unfortunately for my nerves, I had misjudged the temperature outside and immediately found it chilling to the bone, the wind cutting through the cobblestone streets as efficiently as a hot knife through butter. I would imagine that my evenings by the fire side did no help in increasing my tolerance for the cold weather either and needless to say, I was glad by the time I returned to my quarters, shivering even beneath the many layers I wore that day.

My business had been going well, and I could not stop myself from feeling a slight amount of pride at how far my practice had come along. As it was, I was now far from the destitute state I had been when I had arrived in London for the first time since the army. It was a small pride, but a well earned one and that was quite enough.

"Good evening, Watson." Holmes said as I hung my jacket on the coat rack. "Mrs. Hudson has been kind enough to serve our tea early this afternoon." He motioned to the tray on the table beside him. "I suspected she thought you would need it, judging by the deplorable temperature outside."

I smiled my gratitude and hurried to put my medical equipment away, and I could see from the state of my room and study that Mrs. Hudson had attempted to tidy up a little. It was in vain, however, as the place was still clearly somewhat of a mess and several half-written manuscripts lay scattered on the floor, where I had discarded them in frustration. I gathered from this that our dear landlady had been worried that I was as painstakingly scrupulous as my friend was and left most all alone, thinking that I would serve into a loud quarrel with her if she moved too much, just as I had heard Holmes do a few days previous. Still, it seemed that she had made it as far as my medical books before leaving things to rest, meaning that I would have to dig them up again if I wanted to continue researching a certain disease I had my mind on all week. I made a note to myself to clean up, as the landlady could only go so long without going through our quarters like a whirlwind and leaving all the things I needed for lost. I knew from experience that it was better that I cleaned up and knew where my items lay rather than let her do it and forever lose the things that were vital to me.

This was almost like a forewarning of things to come. Next time, my papers would not be so lucky.

I forwarded this note to my friend when I re-entered the sitting room.

"I will keep it in mind." was all he said about the matter and I knew from the flippant answer that he would not bother with the advice until Mrs. Hudson came around in a few weeks brandishing a broom.

"How was Mrs. Willacre's husband?" he asked when I sat down in the armchair across from his own. "Did they catch the scoundrel who did it?"

I blinked for a moment before replying. "He is quite all right. It was merely a benign little scratch on the arm. As for the crook, I believe he got away." I smiled, intrigued at how he knew of my whereabouts this time. "How did you know? Was it the mud on my boots or the state of my trousers that told you? Although, I do not understand how you would know about the burglar, as I hear it was kept fairly quiet in their neighbourhood."

"On the contrary, my dear Watson." He replied back, smirking at my assumptions. "I simply read this telegram you left on the breakfast table." He leaned forward and showed me the slip of paper, which I noticed was the letter that Mrs. Willacre had sent me that morning, explaining the entirety of the situation. I laughed at the realisation and he lay the paper back onto the table beside him. "Sometimes, I fear you appreciate my powers a little too much, Watson." he commented blithely, observing me quietly as he smoked his pipe.

I shrugged my shoulders. "Or perhaps I have simply grown used to you delineating the events of my day in great detail from the state of my trouser knees."

Holmes allowed himself an amused chuckle at my abridgement of his methods. "I fear for the day when my powers will impress you no longer."

I laughed again, stretching my legs toward the crackling fire in front of us. "I do not think that day will come quickly, my friend." Closing my eyes, I took a sip from the tea that Mrs. Hudson had so graciously served. "How did you fare on the Morrison case?"

His eyes twinkled at the mention of his work, but he merely gave a nonchalant shrug. "It was quite simple. It was Richards."

"The butler?" I asked incredulously.

He nodded with an almost imperceptible bit of smugness. There was always pride to be got from his work, and I did not fool myself in thinking that he did not deserve it. "Indeed. Would you like the reports?"

I shook my head to decline. "Perhaps later. I am a bit weary from my day."

"But of course."

We faded into silence for a while, staring at the flames in the fireplace until Holmes spoke again.

"You have been acting rather odd lately." he remarked suddenly. "Is something the matter?"

I have noticed in my many years with Holmes that he usually, if not always, knows what a man is thinking. He ascertains emotions from our actions, as he does with everything else, and years in each other company has made my emotions an open book to him. However, he does have one rather large flaw about it that he does not either acknowledge or care about. I would imagine it was the latter, as Holmes rarely misses such things and probably knows perfectly well the foibles of his own character, unlike most people, who deny its existence. His flaw lies in the fact that after he realises what a man was thinking, he rarely knows what to do with the information, unless it involves his work in any way. Emotions were not things he talked about with flourish and I could see even now that he was not comfortable with this conversation. So I shook my head and told him it was nothing, hoping he would lay the matter to rest, as I had no more wish to talk about it than he did.

"You've been thinking about your wife again." It was not a question. "It has been nearly two months now, Watson." he added quietly.

He was right, of course. I had counted the days myself. I did not bother to ask him how he knew of my thoughts, and I admit that I had no wish to. Milliways had alleviated me from my pains for a while, but now that I had returned to London three weeks ago, my life had steadily been recovering that disconsolate stage once more.

My mouth stayed silent and my eyes continued to stare into the bristling fire.

Holmes sighed, puffing his pipe in the slightly irate way that said he would rather not talk of the subject. It was true that his emotions were more of a puzzle to me, but I knew of his actions and it was clear that he thought that I was being tiresome. "I had thought that you had been feeling a bit better. The Baskerville case seemed to have enlightened your spirits, and at the beginning of this month you had seemed more content with yourself since the death. I will not ask why." he said quickly at my unspoken excuse. "I can see that you have no wish to explain." He eyed me coolly. "But perhaps you are in need of whatever it is again. Despondency is not your colour, my dear friend. And if I might make an observation, you have lost a lot of weight during these past few weeks. Mrs. Hudson is beginning to worry that you do not enjoy her cooking any more."

I snorted, despite the nature of the conversation.

"I apologise if you think my words too intrusive."

I shook my head. "No, it is all right, Holmes. It is true. I have not been myself."

"But you will not act to change."

It was not right of me to, I admit this freely, as I know that Holmes was only worried for my good interest, just as I do when he uses that dreaded seven percent solution of his, but I profess that now that the roles had been reversed, I did not take it well.

It is my words that I am ashamed of, and at the moment, I feel too shamed to even write them down. I will tell you, at least, that it held accusations at my friend's unusual interest at my life, and some patronising remarks at myself, for my lack of competence that lost me my wife in the first place. It shocked me how reproachful I was for all of this, and I realised perhaps I had not been dealing with the death as well as I should have. But then, how does one deal with death well?

"Do not insinuate such nonsense!" Holmes cried with surprising fervour when I had finished my vociferation. "You are not a god. You could not have saved Mary Morstan just as I could not have stopped the death of James Morrison! It had already happened and we, as mere mortals, cannot change the past. You told me that she had been ill, even before you had left me to join the chains of matrimony and yet you sit here, denying it and deluding yourself into thinking you could have done more. Such foolishness is not fit for a man of your work, Watson. I have known you for nearly seven years and I assure you that you are just as competent and adept as many other physicians I have met in my days and there is no one I would trust more with my health and well-being. Therefore I must ratiocinate that your presumptions are irrational, senseless and to a point, asinine."

I was shocked into silence at his outburst, as seeing him livid at anything to any level was a rare sight. But he quickly recovered his usual composure, closing his eyes to muse quietly on his pipe. He did not apologise for his actions, and I certainly did not expect it of him. It was not he who had been at fault.

"I am sorry." I said quietly, after the tension had ceased a bit. "I have been being difficult."

"Yes," he agreed brusquely in his usual nature. "You have."

I opened my mouth to explain myself, but then, just as suddenly, I clamped it shut again.


With a weary sigh, I apologised again and retired to my quarters.

I knew that Holmes had considerable knowledge. It was a fact that could simply not be denied. He would know where you had been, what shop you had visited, what train ticket you had used, perhaps even before you yourself realised where you had been. But areas of emotions and feelings were quite out of his depth. He did not favour the subject and usually eyed it with no small amount of distaste. My words would not change this, and I knew that even if I explained it as hard as I could, it was one explanation he would not understand as I did.

Do not read my words as thinking that my friend is heartless. Despite what I might have said in previous chronicles and words of others, Holmes is not a dispassionate man. It is a difficult type of thing to illustrate for anyone who had not known him and it is perhaps only my years with him that makes things clear for myself.

My night was a sleepless one, as one could probably gather from the current time. It is my lack of fatigue that keeps me awake enough to write this down, but I am thinking that it is, by now, time to blow out my lamps and retire.