A/N: this was written for KCS' challenge (Watson's Woes lj community), but then I thought it less angsty then required…and I mixed EMPT and SPEC…and it is dreadfully fluffy… hm. Enjoy?..

'In the last two years of my residence in Baker Street, often was I commended by most various personages for my patience and understanding of various eccentricities of my friend and flatmate, Mr Sherlock Holmes.

I must confess, therefore, to at least one occasion during our association when I utterly failed to keep my composure, and even more unusually, he conceded my point.

I am dreadfully ashamed of losing my temper, seeing as he took the matter to heart. Any satisfaction he might have received – and rightfully so! – from protecting young Miss Helen Stoner and avenging her late sister's murder was ruined by my thoughtless and selfish outburst upon seeing the only keepsake he brought with him. Holmes didn't charge the girl a penny more then the combined sum of our tickets; and however it pains me to write, I will allow I'd rather he took monetary compensation than this wicked relic of deception and crime.

By Heaven, I wish I could understand his fascination with all things morbid and vile; and though probably the vigil we kept the other night at Stoke Moran moved me more than I'd like to admit, it does not justify my yelling at him or threatening to throw the thing out... We had a row to end all rows… suffice to say, he will endeavour to store his more sinister souvenirs in his room or at any rate out of plain sight, and I will not breath a word of this unless he startles me as badly as he did today.

But, to begin at the beginning.

I woke up pleasantly late, and was a bit surprised to find all windows of our sitting room opened despite it being chilly and wet outside and Holmes already collecting his chemicals and cleaning his tools, to all appearances having just completed a particularly smelly but apparently successful experiment. My companion must have waited for me to come down before ringing for breakfast, so I closed the nearest window and sat down, waiting for him in return.

He spoke without standing up from his worktable, thrusting his hand in my general direction.

- Ah, Watson! What, man, have you seen such excellence before?

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears that...'

The reason for our quarrel granted to the British Museum, Ms Hudson outdid herself with a celebratory dinner, and Holmes remonstrated with me on the merits of scientific approach versus medieval superstitions – a truly unappetising topic.

All in all, his lecture was highly enlightening, if somewhat erratic due to my listless attempts in distraction and his merciless teasing.

- Lovely weather.

- Bravo.

- Any opera you would like to see? A concert?

- You treat?

- No.

- Whyever not?

- I do not feel like treating you to a concert after that – that – territorial misunderstanding. Please notify me beforehand if you need me to keep some – valuable object.

He chuckled in remembrance.

- I say, Cicero would tear his laurel wreath to shreds had he but heard your tirade.

- He probably hasn't been asked if he had seen an adder first thing in the morning.

- Bah, I have little doubt a Roman statesman of his times had to be fairly knowledgeable regarding local snakes...

I thought about those dead whitish eyes, that sickly yellow skin. I've seen the species once in its native habitat during my service days, though I haven't bother to ask how it was called then; he read about it in a book.

Miss Stoner's tears of gratitude.

The stench of formaldehyde, still detectable in the air.

Holmes' face, radiating fatherly pride as he showed me his handiwork.

I speared some tasteless vegetable with my fork. He seemed genuinely troubled when I dropped in my armchair, fumbling for my pulse and asking for a glass of water; I should at least try to be civil.

- Why ask me, anyway?

- I forgot where I put the jar.

- How could you? You'd just secured the lid!

He shrugged nonchalantly; his gaze fell from my accusatory one.

- You – didn't sleep, did you?

- It would rot beyond recognition if I didn't prepare it.

We busied ourselves with whatever it was on our plates.

- Pass the butterdish?

- Here.

He stood up and went to his bedroom, then paused.

- I suppose you don't need a leopard's claw?

- No, but thank you.

I smirked at his affected disappointment – yes, I have buttered my toast, and no, you couldn't have hidden a claw there already; he shook his head in defeat and re-seated himself. Impossible man.

- I will tell Ms Hudson, though, that she isn't to dispose of it before you explicitly permit her…

He chortled, and a strange calm settled in my heart.

- Then she probably never will; how can I ever part with my most prized possession?