The train was speeding its way through the countryside on early Saturday morning. The sun was shining high and bright in the brilliant blue sky, and there was not a single cloud in sight. However, the positive weather outside did not match the atmosphere inside.

Holmes and I were sharing a first-class carriage – how generous of his parents to accommodate us so – but only one of us was relaxed. My friend, who was sitting in front of me, was seated with his limbs crossed so tightly that I almost feared he would be entangled that way forever. He kept his gaze fixed at the window so he did not notice me migrate towards the seat next to his until I placed my hand on his knee. Holmes sharply turned to me, his face an unreadable mask.

"Everything will be fine, my dear Holmes," I said gently. "You'll see."

"I have little faith, Watson," Holmes replied flatly. "I am not looking forward to this visit, and to think it has a duration of seven days!"

"I will be with you every step of the way. You are not alone."

"I know. I am forever indebted to you for this, my friend."

"Think nothing of it. I am glad to be here."

Holmes nodded. Now that I was sitting close to him, I noticed dark shadows underneath his eyes and he appeared exhausted. I felt a small pang of pain for him; this visit was truly affecting him.

"You haven't slept very much last night," I declared.

My friend smiled weakly. "An excellent observation, Watson."

"Why don't you lie down on the bench and get some sleep? I will wake you when we arrive."

"Watson…"

You cannot appear on your parents' doorstep looking as if you are on the verge of death! Sleep, Holmes; it'll help."

Instead of answering or listening to my medical advice, Holmes averted his eyes to my hand, which was still resting on his knee. I tore my hand away but Holmes quickly grasped it. I stared at him, unsure of what to think.

"It's… comforting," Holmes said awkwardly.

He looked away, but not before I saw a slight flush colour his cheekbones, as if he had just confessed something embarrassing. I smiled, an idea crossing my mind.

"Would you like to lean against me as you sleep? You can rest your head on my shoulder," I suggested, almost bracingly.

Holmes looked at me again. He seemed to be having an internal battle, struggling to decide to whether let his pride or his basic human need win. Eventually, the need triumphed and he slid towards me. He placed himself comfortably against me, his head on my shoulder, and I put an arm around him. He was a little tense, making it clear that he was feeling slightly awkward. He kept his eyes open for quite some time as I simply looked out the window.

Finally, Holmes fell asleep, the tension leaving his body as he allowed himself to rest. I used my free arm to join our hands together, rubbing soothing circles in the palm of my friend's hand.


We arrived in Southampton in the middle of the afternoon. Holmes had slept soundly, and it had taken a few tries in order to wake him. He followed me bleary-eyed onto the platform, where we retrieved our luggage.

"You look much better, old boy," I told him truthfully.

"I reluctantly admit that I feel better as well," Holmes replied, a little sleepily. "Thank you, my dear Watson. You make a comfortable pillow."

I chuckled. "Anything for a friend."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

We turned around. A stout man stood behind us, looking as if he had better things to do with his time than to escort two gentlemen to a specified destination. He was regarding us with an expression akin to disapproval, though what he could be possibly disagreeing with was anything beyond my imagination.

Holmes, however, seemed to have more of an inkling, for he brushed away invisible specks of dust and tried to appear even more professional than he already did.

"That would be me," he said coolly. "This is my friend, Dr. Watson."

"Yes, your parents have mentioned there would be two of you," the man replied indifferently. "Follow me, if you please."

My friend grimaced behind our guide's back as we gathered our luggage and followed him to a cab. We settled ourselves in and we were soon whisked away down the winding roads of Southampton. Needless to say, it was a quiet journey with Holmes sulking in his corner and our unnamed companion ignoring us completely.

After what had felt like hours of travelling we pulled into a long driveway. The vast estate was composed of never-ending rolls of emerald-green grass and trees. As I admired the land, the house came into view and I could not refrain myself from gasping in awe. The building was a mansion, and every inch of it screamed that its tenants lived a very wealthy lifestyle.

"Holmes!" I breathed, leaning towards him. "You have never told me that you are from a rich family!"

"What is there to tell?" said he, shrugging. "It is nothing out of the ordinary."

"But, Holmes –"

"Drop it, Watson."

There was a cutting edge to his voice that made me fall silent. Now that we were only moments away from meeting his parents, my friend's nerves must have been overwhelming thus making him irritable. I let him be by looking out the window on time to see the cab slow to a stop in front of the mansion's main entrance. Our guide jumped out of the carriage and we followed him.

"Grab your luggage, gentlemen, and come with me," he said clinically.

We complied, and our companion led the way into the house. He instructed us to leave our baggage in the hallway, and he brought us into the sitting room. He firmly told us to wait there as he went to fetch the owners of the mansion. I cannot say I was sorry to see him go; I was under the impression that this was as cheerful this man would get.

Holmes and I seated ourselves upon the settee. As I permitted my eyes to scour the room, I noticed that a tremor was racking through Holmes's entire being. I frowned; I had never seen my friend so nervous. I was starting to suspect that there may have been more to Holmes's story than he had let on.

I reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked at me, anxiety as plain as day on his face. What sort of people were his parents, if they could drag out such emotions from him? I was beginning to feel apprehensive myself.

Suddenly, a pristine couple entered the room. At that moment I received an idea on why my friend's nerves were being stretched to a breaking point: both parents were standing with a frightening rigidity and not a single hair was out of place. Their luxurious clothing was pressed to a perfection, and they bore the identical cold mask Holmes famously wears in my accounts of his cases. I was feeling nervous by simply being in this couple's presence.

Holmes abruptly stood up, and I mimicked him. He wrung his hands and attempted to give the best smile he could muster. I glanced at him worriedly, wondering how I should address such elegant people.

"Watson," Holmes said demurely. "I would like to introduce you to William and Anita Holmes. My parents."