And as I continue on my journey of taking terrible clichés and attempting to rehabilitate them…

I don't own Holmes or Watson, and Rosey is my consulting editor.

It is a hallmark of my friend Sherlock Holmes' cases to be, in some capacity, disturbing. One of the most alarming instances in my life came, as would be expected, during my time living with Sherlock Holmes. It was mere weeks before my wedding to Mary and so I was still co-habiting with that great man, though I was already preparing for my departure.

The nature of the disturbance that this particular incident caused me is not particularly severe, though it is highly personal. Though my observations are rarely—if ever- of the caliber of Holmes', I would, I think, do myself a disservice if I said that I was entirely blind to my surroundings. As a doctor, the ailments of the body are no mystery to me, but in matters of the mind I am as unskilled as any other. I do, however, have a very particular insight to one mind in particular, and that is the fantastic mind of Holmes himself.

It is generally understood that those men incredibly gifted in some way have unusual methods of expressing themselves; this is no less true of Holmes than it was for Da Vinci, Shakespeare, or even Homer. For his part, Holmes has an extraordinary difficulty in expressing personal desires and needs, owing in large part, I suspect, to his masterful nature. Despite this difficulty, I rarely have trouble discerning even those thoughts Holmes would rather keep hidden. I have grown accustomed to his unique method of expression, and had become perhaps over-confident in my ability to understand him. I prided myself then, but less so now, on my ability to notice the minutest things about him. This is, in fact, why the anecdote I am about to relate so unnerved me; over the course of the events to be described, I came to realize that I had been overlooking something which had been preying on Holmes' mind and which I should have instantly noticed.

The instance I am about to recount occurred on a Saturday afternoon in late August. It was the kind of blazing hot day that elicits an unholy scent from the streets of London and a strong desire in any rational man to leave them well behind. It had been storming furiously all day, leaving me bored and useless behind the wind- and rain-lashed windows of a small home in Paddington, whence I had been summoned by an elderly woman convinced that the aching of her joints was not in fact caused by the humidity of the air, but by the sourdough bread her daughter-in-law had baked for her.

So it was that in extreme frustration I decided to abandon my post early that day in order to retire to Baker Street. Fortunately, by the time the cab had deposited me on the door step, the rain had abated slightly, leaving a thick, roiling mist to rise from the street as the heat of the day took immediate effect on the moisture. The slate-grey clouds that had hung heavy over London were beginning to dissipate, and a few curious heads were beginning to leave the safety of their doorways. I let myself into the rooms I occupied with but a cursory greeting to our good landlady, Mrs. Hudson, for I admit that I was eager to see Holmes. One's mind is always occupied with such a companion, and I sorely needed the distraction after the monotony of my practice.

I was also, I admit, in some fear for the state of the rooms. Holmes is rarely limited by weather that would keep other men to their homes, yet that morning he'd said he planned on staying in. By this time I had lived with him long enough to know that, if left to his own devices within our shared rooms for any length of time, I would often return home to find that serious damage had occurred in my absence.

To my surprise, our rooms were not only in perfect order when I arrived, but being actively cleaned by a rather fetching young woman whom I had never before seen.

My immediate thought was for the lady's safety, as she was sifting through the kitchen cabinets when I first saw her. The flat I share with Holmes is, through no fault of my own, I hasten to add, frequently a dangerous place. Often it is because of the trouble which Holmes attracts; more often it is because of the trouble which he causes himself. I have arrived home many a night to find our rooms filled with acrid smoke, or alive with the buzzing of a handsaw, or even, on one memorable occasion, the hissing of acid as it ate through the kitchen table.

"Excuse me, Miss!" said I, dropping my umbrella on the floor and hastening to her side.

"Yes?" she replied, turning. She held up her hands before her, both gloved in thick leather spattered with paint and dotted with small cuts. I must have picked up some few skills from my time with Holmes, for even I could see she was no ordinary woman. Despite the heat, which even in the shade of my rooms was oppressive and heavy, she was covered from head to foot in dark, forest green velvet. The dress was rich, but worn, which spoke of wealth fallen on hard times, yet still she wore a thick ribbon about her neck hung with a coral cameo. She had a strikingly pale, sharp-featured face that would have seemed out of place on a woman had she not carried herself so gracefully, nor had such beautiful, mischievous grey eyes.

I cleared my throat uncomfortably as I searched for the proper reaction to finding a strange woman cleaning one's home. "Hello," I said finally, and she shyly reached out with one leather-gloved hand. I merely bowed over it, for I was not fool enough to kiss something that had been elbow deep in Holmes' cabinets moments before.

"I'm so glad you've returned, Dr. Watson," said she, and she removed her leather gloves only to reveal pale silk ones quite out of season. Despite the heat, her dress sleeves met her gloves at the wrist, covering her skin entirely.

"Oh? Are you?" I returned uncertainly. She removed the hat from my head and slid the coat from my shoulders, taking particular care with my wounded shoulder, though how she knew of it I did not know.

Before hanging the coat on its accustomed rack, she drew her hand gently across the exact location of the scar. "I know it pains you when it rains," said she, conspiratorially.

I stood dumbfounded for a moment, and when she passed me on her way back to the kitchen, the young lady dropped me a rather saucy wink. "Do sit down, Doctor," she said. "I would feel terrible if I've made you uncomfortable in your own home."

With no other ideas, I followed her instructions and took a seat, the familiar location and comfort bringing me back to my rather addled senses. "May I ask your name?" I asked. "Have you business with Holmes?"

She shook her head, dark curls tumbling from the messy knot she wore it in as she put a fire on the stove. "I've no interest in Holmes," she replied. "Nor does he appear to be here."

I had not noticed, truth be told, so absorbed was I in this mysterious interloper, but Holmes did seem to be absent from Baker Street. There was not the usual racket of his presence, nor a cloud of tobacco smoke to announce that he was hard at work. As I looked around the sitting room, our usual menagerie of books, papers and tobacco stubs seemed untouched, leading me to believe the young lady now bringing me a cup of tea had not been there long. The curtains had been opened to let in the sun, painting the room with the buttery yellow light of late afternoon, and fireplace grate had been cleaned, leaving only pitch-black soot stains to show it had been used at all. The few suitcases I had already packed were placed neatly by the door, thought now as I watched, the young lady began to pick them up with a quick strength and deposit them on the far side of the room.

"Terrible time of year to travel, isn't it, Doctor?" said she, to which I agreed without much thought.

The thought crossed my mind that perhaps Holmes had sent this young woman, as a joke of sorts, having first given her information about myself that few others knew. Though I have known him longer and better than most, the intricacies of his rather individual sense of humor still escape me. Perhaps, I thought, sipping the tea she had prepared me, it was an experiment on Holmes' part. This, though I did not know it at the time, was what Holmes would months later claim was the truth, though I still harbor doubts on the matter.

"If you'll forgive me for being so direct, how did you get in here?" I queried. To my surprise I noticed the tea she had made me was tailored exactly to my preferences, though, as with my wound, I had no idea how she could have known.

"I used the door, of course," said she, with a smile, settling herself neatly in the chair across from my own.

"Did Holmes invite you?" I asked, brushing aside my impatience with the levity of her answer.

She frowned, pouting prettily at me for a moment before replying. "I already told you," said she, lifting a penknife from the table beside her and examining it, "I have no interest in Holmes."

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "Then why," I asked, "are you here?"

Twirling the knife between her fingers with surprising dexterity, she mirrored my pose and easily captivated me with her magnificent eyes. She replied, "Did you know that half of all homicides in London this year were committed by one spouse upon the other?"

I sat back abruptly, my eyes drawn away from hers and back to her hands, which were extremely long-fingered and quite broad about the palm. I looked from her face, to her hands, and back to her face, then sighed, sitting back in my chair with my fingers pressed to my temple.

"Holmes," said I. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

The young woman grinned rakishly and unapologetically, then stood, seeming to lengthen before my eyes until her skirt barely touched her ankles. A long, black wig hit the floor by my feet, followed by a pair of gloves and a length of ribbon, and I was once again looking at my friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes.

"I was wondering when you'd catch on, Watson," said he, and began unbuttoning the bodice of his dress. "I was getting quite uncomfortable, all bent like that so I'd be the proper height."

I said nothing, for there was a pounding beginning in my head that I suspected was only partially caused by the heat.

"Really, now," Holmes said, stepping out of the dress to reveal perfectly ordinary trousers and shirt beneath. "I've come to expect, even embrace your reticence, but at the moment I find it perfectly menacing."

"Were I not a gentleman," said I, raising my head at last, "and you my dearest friend, I'm afraid I should find myself tempted to clock you."

Holmes gave a gracious nod. "And I would deserve no less. Fortunately, however," said he, brightly, "you are a gentleman, and I am your dearest friend." He turned in the direction of his own chamber, dress draped over his arm like a cloak.

"Holmes," said I, pressing my palms together, "I am going to marry Miss Morstan."

He stood still for a moment, a tall, sharp figure outlined by the orange light of the setting sun, filtered through window he stood beside. For an instant, he seemed to me diminished in size, the grandeur of his immense talents and mind stripped down to reveal the man beneath.

"The tea," I added, after a moment's pause, "was wonderful."

Then he threw back his head and laughed, as I have seen him do while slipping evidence out of a man's pocket in order to distract him, and he warned me against the wiles of women, as he has done many times before.

For my part, I remained seated until the sun sank below the rooftops of London, painting the sweltering streets red and gold until it at last vanished and the purple curtain of night fell across the city, finally bringing relief from the scorching summer day.

As thunder rumbled in the far-off distance, I sat in the twilit grey and wondered how I'd not noticed such a remarkable color before. It seemed to me that in my hubris, I had been blind to the very thing I thought I'd seen clearest.