I recall it was late in the winter of 1889. Holmes and I had just finished the most curious and remarkable Adventure of the Third Fighter, and, after several days of working feverishly, my friend's mind was not coping well with it's reintroduction to stagnancy. His mood had become so black that it seemed to permeate the very air in our humble flat, mingling with the foul cloud of tobacco smoke that hovered in the stuffy atmosphere. Even our longsuffering landlady had been driven away from our door by his churlish mood; she had blatantly refused to bring up our meals or clean the quarters "until that awful stuff is gone!"

The weather outside seemed to reflect Holmes' mood; the heavens were covered in oppressive grey clouds, the wind howled outside the casement, and it was bitterly cold. My old war wounds were giving me grief, for not only was the weather causing them to ache and twinge, but the treks downstairs and back up to bring up our meals and send them back down added extra strain, making it worse for me. Still, I am not one prone to complaining, and I will spare you the unnecessary details of my discomfort.

It was on the third morning of this wretchedness that our - or rather mine, as Holmes refused to touch anything other than that vile-smelling tobacco of his - breakfast was interrupted by the arrival of one miserable-looking Inspector Lestrade. His rat-like face was pinched and pale, though his cheeks and the tip of his nose were flushed pink form the cold. The poor man wasn't three steps in the room before Holmes coolly stated, "Your wife is in the country, I see. Really, man, you should at least attempt to keep in her good graces."

The inspector's eyes grew wide, and he stammered out some unintelligible statement that only Holmes was able to decipher.

"It was all too easy to tell, Lestrade. The right side of your face is clean-shaven, yet the left side is rather poorly done. A wife would never allow her husband to leave their home in such a state. Also, you look distinctly under-fed, as if you have not been privy to proper cooking. Your hat has not been properly dusted, there is a considerable amount of lint on your jacket lapel, and your shoes have been inadequately cared for. As I know you have no maid or landlady, the only person available to do such duties would be your wife. Your overall lacklustre appearance speaks of her absence. I can safely say she is in the country because you do not seem overly worried for her welfare, and the weather there is significantly nicer at the present."

By the look on the poor fellow's face, my friend's deductions were correct. Holmes' powers still continue to astound me. Certainly I noticed Lestrade's poor shave, and certain other minute details, but I never thought to connect the proverbial dots to reach a definite conclusion.

"Well, Mister Holmes, you never fail to amaze me." Lestrade said after a few moments. "Though your methods are…not exactly orthodox, their results are distinctively impressive."

Holmes nodded his head in acknowledgment of the praise, and then leaned back in his favourite chair, long fingers pressed together, eyes glittering in thinly-veiled excitement as he appraised our unexpected guest. "I presume you did not come here for a mere social call?"

"Indeed. The thing is, Mr. Holmes, the weather is quite nasty outside, and my men do not exactly appreciate having to go out in it to chase a figment of an old lady's imagination. Then again, it cannot be a simple figment of her imagination, as someone really was killed, right?"

"Lestrade, you seem to have picked up the most despicable habit of starting a story from the end instead of the beginning. Watson oft does the same. Pray have a seat and warm yourself by the fire, and then tell your story."

Murmuring a quick word of thanks, Lestrade obeyed, producing a pipe from his pocket as Holmes held out the old Persian slipper. After a few puffs, the man seemed to relax, if only marginally. He cleared his throat, and then began his narrative.

"Last night, in the wee hours, I was at home, treating myself to a bit of brandy when young Hopkins burst into the room, as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels.

'Good God, man!' I cried, standing to steady him, for his tall frame was drooping somewhat from exertion. 'What brings you here in such a state?'

He took several deep breaths, then gripped my shoulders.

'There's been a murder, sir!' he exclaimed. 'And during the holiday season! Utterly dreadful!'

Now I, being the perceptive man I am, quickly realised it was more than just a mere murder that had this young man so shook up.

'Are there any witnesses, Hopkins?'

'Aye, sir,' said he.

'Who?'

'An elderly lady by the name of Mrs. Eleanor James, sir.'

'Pray, did she see the murderer?'

'She did, sir, though her testimony is quite incredible.'

'How so?'

'She…she said the killer was a ghost, sir!'

"My initial reaction, as you may imagine, was laughter. How absurd! A spirit murdering a flesh-and-blood man! Still, Hopkins' grave expression quickly sobered me. 'Surely you cannot believe this nonsense!' I said incredulously.

'Mrs. James came to the Yard all upset, sir. She was raving about a murder happening right before her eyes, as she was walking home from a Christmas dinner her friend had invited her to. Being a widow, she had been alone on her journey. She said it had all been very calm, until a woman's shrill scream had startled her. Turning her head in the direction of the noise, she said she saw a young lady stabbed with a large blade, then saw her fall to the ground, and a dark mass float away from the body! We followed her down to the scene of the crime, and found the woman lying there, dead. We looked around, hoping to find footprints in the slush or something of the sort, but found nothing. There was truly no evidence of any other man or woman, save the dead one!'

"I confess, I was really quite puzzled by this, and agreed to go with him to the scene. When we arrived, the body had been removed, though the blood stains remained. I looked over the area and was surprised - and, if I may admit, somewhat frightened - to find it was as they said; not a boot print nor weapon about! My men are still out, questioning those in the buildings surrounding the area and attempting to hunt down the murderer, whether he is fiend or spectre. I thought it wise to consult you, as you do have a certain…knack for noticing things most people don't."
Lestrade leaned forward in his chair eagerly. "Will you take the case, then?"

Clearly, Lestrade wasn't such a "perceptive man" as he may have thought. It was quite obvious by the deep scowl etched in my friend's hawk-like features and the dangerous glimmer of his grey eyes that he would not take the case.

"Inspector Lestrade," he began in a low voice. "Have you, perchance, read the papers as of late?"

Lestrade seemed confounded by this query. "Yes, I have, actually."

"Then you must be aware of a certain French illusionist who is currently staying in the lower part of Central London, yes?"

"I am indeed."

"He is called The Great Gaston, if I am not mistaken."

"I believe so, Mr. Holmes."

"And have you ever watched one of his performances?"

Lestrade chuckled. "No, sir. Frivolous folly, as I see it. Very dull, too. I can normally guess all the tricks."

A small smile found its way onto Holmes' thin lips, and I knew at once it was not a pleasant one. Suddenly, he shot out of his chair, crossing to his large desk. Turning, he faced us, his walking-stick in hand. With a sharp movement, he brought the end down hard upon the carpeting, and I watched, astonished, as he rose a few centimetres off the flooring, the small smile having grown to an almost feral grin. Lestrade gave a great cry of fear, jumping from his seat and crossing himself, eyes wide and limbs trembling. Holmes gave a harsh laugh before he all but threw the walking-stick down, landing neatly on the floor and stalking back over to us.

"A simple trick, but effective nonetheless. The spectator is so shocked by the ascension of the performer that they notice little else. A master magician, such as Monsieur Gaston, would easily be capable of the feat." Holmes began to pace now, pale hands gesticulating in his agitation. "A string of murders extraordinarily similar to that of the young woman last night have occurred in France, stopping the night of Monsieur Gaston's departure from his homeland. He has been in England for approximately three days now. I should think if you were to go to M. Gaston's hotel room, you would find a 'large blade' matching that of Mrs. James' description. Simple; damnably so!" He turned on Lestrade, eye's glittering with irritation. "I would be quite appreciative if you would leave, and not return until you have something worthy of my time."

Lestrade nodded quickly and scurried from the room, slamming the door behind him. At our guest's quick departure, Holmes flung himself into his chair, glowering at the wall.

"Holmes, old man," said I, "perhaps you were a bit too harsh on the poor fellow."

My friend turned his glare to me. "Oh?" His lips twisted in a sneer. "He was an imbecile. A fool! And you! You weren't much better than he! You, who know my methods, who have read the papers just as I have, who even proposed we go see one of M. Gaston's shows, could not even follow my train of thought! Obviously, my faith in your mental faculties was utterly misplaced. At times, it astounds me that you can breathe without assistance!"

This having been said, Holmes made a noise of disgust and stomped to his room, slamming the door behind him. I confess, I was most injured by his biting accusations. Of course, it was not the first time Holmes had insulted me during one of his black moods, but never had he gone as far as this. The weight of his words fell heavily upon me, and I was utterly crushed. Holmes, my friend, my colleague, my brother in all but blood, had been so completely revolted by my ignorance - and rightly he should have been! - that he could not even bear to linger in my presence! It was then, in that moment of despair and self-hatred that I became determined to sharpen my mind. Of course, I would never reach Holmes' level of acumen, but I could at least try to have higher intelligence than the common, uneducated child. I was going to learn his methods thoroughly, hide them in my heart and never depart from them, use them as often as I could to help him in his cases and restore his faith in me. I was going to learn The Trick.

Pushing the remnants of my breakfast aside, I set to work. First, I set about obtaining some of Holmes' writings, such as his The Book of Life, and his documents on tobacco ash and various soils. This took the better part of the morning, as he kept none of his works in the flat, and they were quite hard to come upon. I did eventually gather them all and returned with them to Baker Street. Their writer had still not emerged from the depths of his chambers, leaving me free to study in the main room. I ignored Mrs. Hudson's calls for luncheon and dinner, completely engrossed in my studies. Eventually I rose, gathered up the papers, turned down the gas, and retired to my bedchambers to continue my work. I paused only when the fire needed stirring, at times even neglecting that. I have always been a very determined sort of fellow, and I never reneged on my word. The fact that I had sworn to myself that I would improve my intelligence only bolstered this already-fierce determination.

It was late in the next morning when I finally removed myself from my chambers, somewhat surprised to see my dear friend curled on the settee, puffing away at his pipe once more. He studiously ignored my presence, and I observed something must have happened to his shaving-mirror, as his left cheek was smooth, and the right more stubbly. I gained small satisfaction from this as I crossed to the door, donning my coat and cap and grabbing my cane as I went. My next task was to observe my surroundings and the people in them. I soon found myself in Hyde Park, leaning heavily upon my walking stick as I ambled down the pathways. I noted the peculiar young man seated on the bench, wringing his expensive hat nervously. One unused to great fortune, I noted. The fine silk hat was too sturdy to bend to his large hands, and anyone used to owning such things would certainly know this. The only thing that would obey the twisting motion would be a felt cap, easily found on most commoners. He seemed horribly uncomfortable in his suit as well, almost as if he wasn't used to such a fine quality of material clothing him. His shoes were definitely new, though the toes were scuffed. Using Holmes' methods, I concluded that the young man before me had recently come into great wealth, perhaps even a title. My spirits soon fell, however, when I realised he could easily have been away for a long while, and had just come back to his luxurious ways. Or perhaps he was unused to such dress because his line of work prevented such finery? I found myself laughing bitterly at my idiocy. Holmes would surely reprimand me for such foolish guesses, and would proceed to tell me all about the man, just from a glance at his socks! What an ass I was, to think I could miraculously manage to increase my low aptitude! What an utter buffoon!

I am ashamed to admit I fell back into despondence and uncertainty, and for a brief moment, I even entertained the notion of leaving Baker Street to spare Holmes the frustration of my dim-witted company, and to spare myself further abjection. Then, I berated myself for thinking such nonsense. Holmes would surely tell me, in no uncertain terms, if he wished for me to leave him, and I was undoubtedly being histrionic in my unhappiness. Reinforcing my resolve, I returned to Baker Street at once, calling to Mrs. Hudson that I would not be taking luncheon as I limped up the stairway. Holmes had not moved from his position, nor did he acknowledge my company. It was just as well, for after doffing my coat and hat, I returned to my bedroom and took up my studies once more.

Hours melted away, and I steadfastly ignored the gnawing of hunger in my stomach, wholeheartedly fixed upon my education. Sleep became folly and meals became tedious, and I only paused when the pain in my bad leg or shoulder became too great to overlook. Then, I would take a few moments to massage the bothersome wounds until the discomfort became the fourth day of this behaviour, I took the time to bathe and attend to my toilet, then delved back into my work. The studies became my sustenance, the appliance of them my rest. I was fully consumed by it, to the point that I neglected to note my signs of weakness. It was on that same day, in the afternoon hours, when I stirred from my room, moving into the main area with the assistance of my cane. My friend was there, pipe dangling from his lips as he stared at the wall, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

"Hullo, Holmes." I ventured with a genial smile. He grunted in response, and that was the end of the conversation.

It was when I stumbled twice while attempting to cross the room that his sharp gaze was drawn to my trembling form. He neglected to speak, however, merely watching me with arched brow. I shrugged and turned from him, blinking rapidly as the room swam before my eyes. After a moment, this impairment cleared and I continued my journey to the door, intent upon going out again to observe the Londoners in all their glory. Then, I must say with all the regret and embarrassment of a shamed man whose pride had been greatly injured, that my bad leg buckled under me, sending me sprawling onto the floor. It seemed that my sleepless nights and foodless days had finally taken their toll, as the world became swathed in a great mist and once more swam before my eyes. It occurred to me that all my faculties much have been affected, because certainly that was not Holmes I heard, calling my name with something akin to worry and fear in his voice! And those weren't his long fingers upon my face, then upon my collar, and those most certainly were not his grey eyes glittering over me! Certainly, I was hallucinating; what other explanation was there for such phenomena? I decided closing my eyes and succumbing to the unconsciousness I felt tugging at me would be the best solution, and so I did, and was soon enveloped in Morpheus' arms.

It was several hours before I woke again, and I was most hesitant to open my eyes, worried at what I might find awaiting me. Holmes' mocking expression, berating me for my foolishness? Or perhaps Mrs. Hudson's worried gaze? Or, God forbid, I may find myself in hospital, being attended to by overzealous nurses. It would do no good to prolong the inevitable, however, and so I pried open my eyelids, surprised to find myself still at Baker Street, lying on the settee, where Holmes had previously been seated. A large tartan afghan was draped over me, and my head had been supported by a pillow I recognised as being from my bed. I attempted to push myself up, but I soon found myself being pressed back down by a gentle hand on my good shoulder.

"Easy, dear fellow," Holmes murmured. "You've been through quite an ordeal."

My brow furrowed in confusion. Where was the condescending speech? The blatant disapproval? The scolding? Holmes must have noticed my expression, as his pale face fell considerably.

"I fear I owe you a thousand apologies, my dearest Watson. I had no idea how much my behaviour had affected you." I made to interrupt, but he held up a hand to stop me. "I spoke unkind and untrue words in the midst of one of my abominable fits, and you, being the loyal, faithful man you are, took my word as gospel truth." A pained expression crossed his features. "You took to studying my methods and manuscripts, did you not? I saw the evidences when I went to fetch a pillow from your chambers. A talk with Mrs. Hudson confirmed that you have not been eating properly since that awful morning, and it was easy enough to see your lack of proper sleep. If I had not been acting with such puerility, such imbecility, I would have noticed the signs sooner. As it were, I was in such a childish fit that I ignored you completely." There was a sparkle of some deep regret and hatred of self in Holmes' mercurial eyes, and again I made to speak up, but he again silenced me with his hand. "I was cruel and harsh to my dearest friend, and for that I cannot apologise profusely enough. My words were errant and foolish, thrown about in a boorish outburst. There was absolutely no truth behind them. I apologise."

"Holmes," said I, "there is nothing to be forgiven. I know fully well how you are when one of your black moods takes hold, and I also know you are not to blame for whatever things you may say or do in those times. You were upset by the lack of a proper case to exercise your mind, and I merely said the wrong things at the wrong time. I was foolish in refusing to partake in a good meal or a good rest."

Holmes chuckled. "Let us say we are both to blame, and put the matter behind us."

"An excellent idea."

He soon sobered and looked at me steadily for a long moment. "You should never change yourself, Watson. You are too good a man and a friend to do that. I have never met another whose bravery, loyalty, and compassion has been so great as yours. Never change, Watson."

I felt my heart warm at his words as I nodded, offering a wavering smile. Holmes returned it, then sprang to his feet, donning his great-coat and hat and offering mine, along with my cane. "If we hurry, we may be able to acquire the corner table at Angelo's. I daresay a good meal is in order for you."

I quickly stood and pulled on the aforementioned items, grasping my cane firmly in one hand as Holmes looped an arm through mine, leading me out the door.

That was probably the worst ending of all time, but I really could think of nothing else. As you've probably noticed, this is my first Victorian era Sherlock Holmes fan fiction, and feedback is both appreciated and sought after, as is constructive criticism. Thank you for reading my small contribution to the archive! Also, let me know how many references you catch!