I sit at the window, watching the rain. I am aware that it would often rain in the London of my own era, but it never felt so constant or dreary then. Today in particular, it seems to me as if the sun may never shine again; just as I feel that I might never smile again. On a miserable morning such as this, I cannot even look at my breakfast, preferring instead to help myself to a second cup of morning tea.

"The postman has been, Holmes," my robotic companion announces, upon entering the room, as if I could not have seen or heard as much from my seat. How many times must I remind Watson that I am neither deaf nor blind?

"Has he?" I respond sarcastically. "Been where, precisely, before coming to our door?"

He should be grateful that I do not share the deplorable sense of humour that I have witnessed in some of our colleagues of New Scotland Yard. I am sure that my response could have been much worse, had I so desired it to be.

The brows of the robot's electromask knit together while its brown eyes scrutinise me for a long moment. "Is something wrong?"

I gaze back at him in the same manner, as if I suspect him of malfunction. "No. Of course not."

"You look utterly miserable, old boy - and, if I might say so, a little on the sulky side; like a young boy that has been told off."

I shrug my shoulders and turn away with a dismissive wave of my hand. I am not in the mood.

"Perhaps the post will provide something of interest, hum? Shall I leave your letters on the sideboard?"

It is wrong of me to treat him in this manner. I regret the way in which I treated my dear friends from my own era; yet here I sit, behaving just as badly, as if I felt no remorse at all. Perhaps the reason why Providence has allowed for me to be restored without my companion of old is a simple one - I never treated him as I should and have proved time and again that I do not deserve his love or support. If this is just what I deserve, I should accept it and be grateful for what I do have.

I turn to my friend with outstretched hand. "Forgive me, Watson. You are indeed right; could I have a look at those letters, please?"

He raises his eyebrows at the usage of the word 'please' but hands them over without comment.

The first envelope is of an excellent quality and the return address informs me that it has been sent out by my bank. The paper statements (which I only am due to receive once a year) are not of the same quality and it is not the end of the tax year. This is some sort of an advertisement. Dull! I set it aside.

The second is a bill for my portable telephone service. I pay my bills by computer! Why the deuce would the company send me a paper copy? I should check that, but I am not in the mood. That is also set aside, but separate from the rubbish.

The third envelope does arrest my attention - the address has been written by hand! In the age of computers and mail merges, it seems strange indeed.

"Perhaps this is a letter from a very poor prospective client," Watson remarks.

I shake my head as I test the weight of the paper. "I think not. This is no cheap stationery."

"Well, then, what do you make of it?"

"I make nothing of it," is my retort, while I set my letter opener upon the envelope in question. "I suppose the sender's printer might be broken, or else the envelope could be too thick to go through said printer; the explanation could well be mundane."

It is not. The letter does not, as it happens, bring a case in its wake. However, it is also handwritten and not without interest (even if the sender is a little too free with his commas):

Dear Mr. Holmes,

Please forgive me, for writing to you in this way, but I heard that you'd been brought back to life, and I've spent months, trying to decide whether I should write to you, or not.

It's probably ridiculous of me, but I've decided to use my best handwriting, instead of the more sensible idea, of using the computer, because, I thought, it might be a welcome change for you.

Anyway, the point of my writing to you: You were friends with my ancestor, who had the same name, and you helped him, once. I thought you might like to know, you were always fondly remembered, and that I'd always wished I could have met you. I'll understand if it never comes to that, but, I thought, I could at least offer you a chance, to talk.

My family returned to England, from Australia, in the middle of the last century, and I've got a summer place in Norfolk. I was born here, and, I think, I'm happier here than I'd ever be abroad, or even anywhere else, in England. There's plenty of room here, if you want to stay, for a few days, or longer. If you ever want a holiday, that is.

I don't really know what else to write, because you've, probably, got so many questions, and here I am, going off on tangents, but it's hard for me to imagine what you might think is most important.

Your friend's descendent,

Victor Trevor

I must confess that I feel somewhat dumbfounded. Victor Trevor had a family, before he died - a family that he told of me! A family that remembers me still. Through slightly moist eyes, I reread his letter before handing it to my robotic companion.

"What are you going to do?" Watson asks of me, in a tone which - it seems to me - holds an underlying note of jealousy in it.

I have already pounced upon the chair in front of my videophone. With surprise, I turn to regard my friend. "I intend to call him, naturally. There was - I believe - a telephone number provided."

"Humph. Naturally," says he, as he hands back the letter.

"Have you ever visited Norfolk?" I ask my friend. "It is - or was (it may have changed dramatically, since I saw it last) - vast and flat, with windmills everywhere. The easiest way to get about was always by water, though there is - was - a railway line. It might be interesting to see it again - though, of course, it could also be somewhat depressing. I should be glad of your company, should you be so good as to kindly join me."

It would appear that I have said just the right thing, for the robot immediately dispenses with his hurt attitude and smiles, before saying that he would be glad to assist me if he can. Does he not know what a comfort he is to me?

"Thank you, Watson," is all that I can say. I am still too stoic to voice more than that.

The fellow that answers his telephone and gazes at me from the screen before me does bear an uncanny resemblance to my old friend of my youth. His eyes and hair are a slightly different colour and his face is a slightly different shape, but the resemblance is still plain to see. My Victor Trevor could have been his father!

"Victor? Victor Trevor?"

He frowns. "Um. Who are you? I'm not going to buy anything."

"Splendid! I am not trying to sell anything. I have just read your letter and felt compelled to respond at once. I hope that it is not too early."

He looks mortified as he hastily covers a yawn. "Oh. Sorry. I had a late night. Does this mean... are you Sherlock Holmes?"

I nod once. "And you are Victor Trevor, descendent of my friend, of the same name?"

The bright smile which illuminates the screen before me is confirmation enough, without the excited head nodding that accompanies it.

"Excellent! Thank you for writing to me. I never heard much from my old friend, after he moved to Australia, but I did often think of him. How much do you know about him?"

"I know he did well in Australia - set up his own business, worked hard, fell in love, married, started a family. You know."

Indeed I do.

"I could probably tell you more, if you give me time. I could see if I can find any old family documents..."

Interested though I am, I would not want to put my new friend to any trouble. "I am just glad to hear that my old friend did well. He was... He was very good to me, during our college days; I was sorry to lose touch with him."

Watson snorts behind me and then decides to attempt to conceal it with a noise that sounds as if it is supposed to be a sneeze. Why on Earth does he expect me to be fooled by that? Can a robot even sneeze, to begin with? I shall have to ask him what the matter is, later.

"Is the family business still running?"

He nods. "Yes, but by a different branch. My father set up his own business and I work with him; we're in industrial forensics."

"Ah! You might prove to be a useful fellow to know. Forensics play rather a big role in my work, as I expect you can imagine."

He grins. "My offer still stands; you're welcome to come join us for a weekend. If you like. One of the neighbours has a farm with stables. I think you used to ride."

He is winning me over. I was not feeling at all like visiting, this morning - or even getting out of bed - but the thought of getting back into a saddle appeals to my sentimental streak. I wonder if Norfolk has changed as much as London.

"Do you mean to say that you want to go all the way to Norfolk?" Watson asks, somewhat incredulously, when I end the call.

"Yes," I respond with annoyance. "Why the blazes not?"

He shrugs. "I thought that you were in a bad mood."

How can I tell him (without upsetting him) that I am always in a bad mood? I miss my Watson. This robot is rather like him, in some ways, but all the same he is more like the doctor's own self portrait, from his stories, but clumsier.

"Holmes? I sometimes wonder what goes on, inside of that mind of yours. Are you listening?"

I permit myself a slow blink and turn my gaze upon him. "I am thinking of horses - of riding. I am thinking of a place that I used to love more than my childhood home. I am thinking that fresh air might improve my appetite and raise my spirits. What are you thinking about?"

He pats my arm. "You are right, of course."

"Of course. Now, would you like to help me to pack? Oh! And see that you remember your charger."

The chirped response assures me that I have successfully cheered him.