Chapter Four.

John Watson used his thumbs to type another text message to Sherlock Holmes into his mobile phone and then pressed send, as he listened as Mrs Hudson chirruped, merrily away to herself in the kitchen.

She was storing the freshly purchased groceries she had decided Holmes desperately needed, when she could not clean Holmes' rooms to her satisfaction, because Watson had turned up and was cluttering up the place.

While she had been out and he had the peace and quiet of the place all to himself, Watson had updated his blog, then trawled the morning newspapers to see if there was even a hint of something sinister going on out there on the streets that might whet Holmes' appetite.

Nothing.

Not so much as a sniff of anything even vaguely intriguing.

Summer time in London.

Anyone with any sense and the ability to do so, had decamped to the South coast, including it seemed, every criminal in London.

He did not have to wait long for a response from his former flatmate.

Their text conversation this morning had been succinct and to the point thus far.

'How was it? JW.'

'What? SH.'

'Dentist. JW.'

'Fine. SH.'

'Will you be home for lunch? Mrs Hudson offered to cook. JW.' Had been his latest missive and Holmes was taking his time in replying.

'There, that's better,' Mrs Hudson came to stand in the kitchen doorway, her tasks completed. 'Honestly, I think Sherlock must have been living on coffee and fresh air," she sighed deeply. 'No wonder he looks like skin and bone. I swear a good gust of wind would knock him over. Anything, dear?'

'Not yet, Mrs H.'

'Well I need to know. I want to get cracking on the potatoes, dear.'

Watson frowned as he glanced at his wristwatch. It was only just noon now. What was the rush? She usually didn't get lunch ready and on the table until at least 1.30pm.

'You could always cook it and leave it for him to heat up in the microwave later, I suppose,' Watson suggested helpfully.

'No dear, I don't think so. I did that with a nice steak and kidney pie last week and it was still sitting there on the ruddy turntable all congealed and going mouldy three days later. I'm not cooking stuff to get wasted, and besides, I need to see him actually put it in his mouth, chew and swallow!'

There was suddenly an odd crack to the woman's voice, and it struck a nerve in Watson.

This was not just Mrs Hudson in her mother hen mode.

She was really worried about Holmes.

Watson began to worry at his bottom lip with his teeth.

It was true that he hadn't been paying as much attention as he used to when he lived here, but now that he thought about it, there was definitely something going on with Holmes, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Holmes did appear to have lost weight, and he wasn't exactly fat by any standard, and his eating habits had always been a bit hit and miss, since Watson had known him. He ate to live, not lived to eat, he had once told Watson, and eating was superfluous when he was working on a case, taking up too much time and energy.

No, it was more than just the not eating, Watson decided.

Was Sherlock trying to hide from him the fact that he was back on the fags, or worse, something stronger?

It was hard to say.

Watson wasn't here twenty four hours a day any longer, and he only saw what Holmes wanted him to see.

And he was a sly beggar when he put his mind to it.

Holmes had been furtive and secretive, more so than usual, his scathing looks warning against delving too deeply, and Watson had just assumed that it was his way of dealing with the boredom of mental inactivity.

At least he hadn't resorted to shooting holes in Mrs Hudson's walls.

Watson's phone chirped a text alert and he returned his attention to the message.

It was Holmes.

'What's on the menu? SH.'

'Bangers and mash, JW.' Watson typed, pressed send and waited for Holmes' reply, which came back more quickly this time.

'Makes a change from beans on toast. Regret will have to decline, SH.'

'Where are you? JW.'

'Tied up, SH.'

'Not literally, I hope, JW.' Watson quipped back, although with Holmes you could never really be sure.

'Busy, SH.' Holmes replied swiftly, and Watson rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation.

Only Holmes could make a text message sound like an admonishment.

'Have to turn phone off for a while. Will text later, SH.'

"Forget Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, he won't be back for lunch. I think he must have got a better offer," Watson called out, and then bit his lip, realizing that that probably sounded very ungrateful.

"Why am I not surprised?" Mrs Hudson sighed heavily as she reappeared in the kitchen doorway, throwing him a pained look.

"I didn't mean ..."

'It's all right, dear. I know what you meant," she regarded him with sad eyes.'That boy, honestly, sometimes I think he'll be the death of me. I worry more about him than I do my own flesh and blood, for crying out loud, and what thanks do I get? He shouts at me, shoots holes in my walls, throws things around in temper and makes an awful mess, wakes me up crashing about in the middle of the night, falling down drunk and knocking things over. Honestly, I don't need all this nonsense at my age, and with my hip. Sometimes I think I'm going to have to strangle the little bugger so I can get a minutes peace of mind!'

With that she shuffled off back into the kitchen, leaving Watson frowning.

Sherlock, falling down drunk in the middle of the night?

That simply did not compute.

Sherlock liked a little whisky now and again, the odd glass of wine, but in all the time he had known him, Watson had never actually seen his friend even the slightest bit tipsy, much less falling down drunk. Alcohol was not his poison of choice. It dulled his senses, and destroyed vital brain cells, and that was the last thing Sherlock wanted.

But, Sherlock was not working on a case at the moment.

Who knew what he did when the demons crept in from the shadows in the middle of the night and he was all alone?

Watson suddenly wondered if he had missed something.

He recalled the day Holmes had stumbled outside Scotland Yard, blaming low blood sugar. Was it possible that Sherlock had developed diabetes, and he had missed the obvious signs, the lack of energy, sudden weight loss, perhaps a raging thirst that drove him to drinking alcohol late into the night?

John scratched absently at his chin, deep in thought, trying to recall other instances when Holmes had either looked off colour, or acted strangely, but again, he could think of nothing that stuck out as particularly odd.

Watson realized that he was going to have to raise his game, and keep a closer eye on his friend, surreptitiously, of course, because if Holmes thought Watson was being overly concerned, he would clam up and become even more determined to conceal the truth from him.

What Sherlock really needed was a case. Something juicy to sink his mental teeth into, but alas, there didn't seem to be much chance of that in the offing at the moment.

All right, another kind of distraction then.

But what?

Watson mulled it over in his head, but still had no firm answers, when the aromas of grilled sausages and onion gravy wafted in from the kitchen, and Mrs Hudson called him to the table.

Despite her grumbling, she had plated up an extra meal for Sherlock, a hand written note propped up against the plastic wrapped plate on the kitchen counter, instructing Holmes on what power setting to use on the microwave and how long it needed to heat.

"Think even he can manage that without burning the house down," she had waved at the meal and the note, and then had turned her attention to washing up the pots and pans she had used to prepare the meal.

"You not having anything, Mrs H?" Watson asked, carrying his plate to the table in the living room, then feeling somewhat guilty as he tucked into the sausages and creamy mashed potatoes.

"Suddenly lost my appetite, dear. Worrying over my wretched tenant," she sniffed and loudly placed a saucepan on the drainer. "Just means there's more for you and Sherlock. I'll get something later," she assured.

Watson smiled.

Sherlock was a lucky man.

There were people who cared a great deal about him, even if he didn't invite or welcome their concerns.

Like it or not, Holmes had more friends than he thought.

In his absence, Watson knew that Mrs Hudson would keep an eagle eye on Sherlock, and if she felt even the slightest bit uneasy about the way he looked, or the way he was acting, she would not keep her concerns to herself.