Within minutes Watson has paled dramatically. I do not blame him in the slightest; the cab driver is almost as bad as Beth Lestrade! The cab does a barrel roll with neither cause nor warning and I hear my companion give a far from characteristic whimper beside me. No, the driver is on a par with Lestrade, for she is rather fond of manoeuvres such as these as well; though she does not tend to play such tricks as often as she did when I was new to flying cars. I suspect that the fun has gone out of it somewhat now that I tend not to gasp and clutch at my seat involuntarily when she does so.

I feel Watson shift in his seat beside me and cast him a questioning glance.

I receive a grimace in response and he again squeezes my hand. "The ginger beer is at least helping the nausea..."

I pat his hand gently. "Driver, I should be most grateful if you would reduce your speed."

"You're paying," is his response as the cab lessens its speed.

I nod and give my companion's hand a reassuring squeeze in response to his. "I am indeed paying," I reply to the driver with a swift smile, "and you can be sure of a handsome tip if you provide us with a comfortable ride."

I feel my friend fidget again. Without a thought I slip an arm about him and quietly assure him that everything is all right.

He nods and apologises quietly.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. Calm yourself my dear fellow," I rub a small circle at his back.

He tenses with a gasp. "Holmes, I assure you that neither of us would like for me to relax at the moment," he whispers urgently.

Ah. I apologise and cease my hand's movements at once. "Should we make a detour?" I do not wish to watch my companion suffer any more than he would want me to be a witness. I try to work out where the nearest public conveniences are located.

I feel him tense again but he shakes his head. "I am all right. It is simply uncomfortable."

I nod and squeeze his hand again gently, doing my utmost to convey my sympathy. I wish that I could help.

"You are helping," he assures me quietly, reading my expression. "Just knowing that you are beside me is a comfort to me."

I address him with a fleeting smile. How perceptive he is!

"I am so sorry that you have to see me like this..." he murmurs so quietly that his words are difficult to discern over the sound of the engine.

"Nonsense my dear Watson," I respond just as softly. "This is not your fault." I then inform him that it would be wise to change the subject. Dwelling on his current need is most assuredly making the discomfort all the worse.

He moans beneath his breath and again apologises.

"Are you sure that you are quite all right?" I ask of him. This is not like my Boswell and I am becoming increasingly concerned.

He nods and fidgets yet again.

After the longest fifteen minutes that I have ever endured, we are finally set down at New London Zoo. I pay the driver in the manner that I promised and help my companion to step out onto the pavement.

"Thank you Holmes."

"Not at all Watson," I perceive that he is shaking and slip my arm about him. "Are you cold?"

"A little, but that is not why I am trembling. When the cab flipped upside down..." he shudders violently and slams his eyes shut.

I squeeze his shoulder. "We are both safe. Come now Watson."

I know that anyone that might overhear would most likely believe my reaction to be far from kind or sympathetic, but my Boswell knows me better than that. I also know that Watson reacts better when a fellow is firm, as if that provides him with a good, sound foundation upon which to steady his nerves.

The Zoo turns out to be rather more interesting than I expected, but it is also teeming with noisy children. There are three different schools here, as is easily discerned by the differing uniforms. No, four; there is another that does not believe in uniforms.

I watch as my companion, now comfortable once more, slowly relaxes and becomes considerably more like himself. He appears to be enjoying the display regarding the dinosaurs and evolution.

"Have you been here before?" my friend enquires as we head for the few outdoor enclosures that belong to living animals, as opposed to automations and droids.

"Once. During a case," I reply. "Lestrade's method of bringing me up to speed was not as... friendly as this. I doubt that you would have appreciated my adopting it."

He raises his eyebrows at me. "What the devil did she do to you?"

"Oh, she did not harm me!" I assure him, containing my amusement with some difficulty. Good old Watson! He is still as protective as ever! "No, no. When I say that her methods were unfriendly I simply mean that she did not even talk to me. She simply gave me a device that would provide me with all the data I could possibly need and left me alone with it."

"I see what you mean."

I smile at him. "Naturally, I was not hurt in the slightest. I believe that you would have been, however; especially if I were to have treated you in such a manner. In any case, Lestrade was busy and I am not."

He nods and slips his hands into his pockets. "I am cold Holmes. Could we step inside the reptile house? That should be quite warm."

I dislike reptiles. I am not frightened of them, of course, and I know that they are kept behind glass in any case. I am simply uncomfortable when a snake is in my vicinity; which has not been improved in the slightest during some of my cases.

"Holmes?" his hand rests upon my shoulder and I hear him give a quiet sniff. "Are you coming? You must surely be feeling the chill yourself. The reptile house should be warm, as they need to be kept within certain margins of temperature."

He is right of course. I follow my companion without a word. My throat is becoming a bit dry from the cold, I must admit.

Upon entering the building that houses the reptiles, we are met by a sight that causes me to wish to return to braving the biting cold. There is a group of children from the school that has no designated uniform, along with a teacher, standing in a semicircle at the centre of the building. In front of them, a uniformed man is removing a boa constricter from what would appear to be a storage box of clear perspex.

"Who would like to pet him then?" he asks. "Come on, don't be shy! Rhyss here loves meeting new people. Just stroke him like you would a cat or dog; from the head end in the direction of the tail. That's it young lady. Very good! What's he feel like?"

"Silky and smooth," a boy says as he follows the example of the girl to his right. "I thought he'd be slimy!"

The handler chuckles as I look on in horrified fascination. "That's a popular belief, that. Shows how wrong we can be. Anyone want to hold him? How about you, Ms. Grindley? No?"

I turn and exit hastily, finally finding myself able to move once more. The mere thought of having a constrictor (or any other type of serpent, for that matter) about my neck is rather more than I can bear. I have to get away and quickly! I feel something unpleasant rise in my throat and hastily lean against the side of the building, concentrating on filling my lungs with the cold, sweet air of New London.

"Mr. Holmes!"

I jump slightly before I am able to stop myself and turn to meet the concerned gaze of one of my Irregulars.

"You're really pale!" Deirdre gasps, touching my arm. "Are you OK?"

I nod and address her with a quick smile. "It was rather too stuffy in the reptile house; I simply need some air."

She nods and gives me an appraising sweep of her eyes. "Where's Watson?"

I shrug with the hand that is not still supporting me as it rests upon the fiberglass wall at my side. "Still inside. Looking at snakes." I feel a queer, shrinking sensation at the thought of Watson being left alone in there with those horrid things. Perhaps I should not have left him.

She frowns. "Well, that's what you do in a reptile house. Are you sure you're OK?"

I am just about to reply when a hand touches my shoulder.

"Holmes? Are you quite well?"

I resist the temptation to grasp him firmly by the shoulders and assure myself that he is perfectly all right, instead simply addressing him with a brief smile and nod over my shoulder. "I needed some fresh air."

Watson steps from behind me to come to my side with a concerned frown. I know that he is about to tell me that I look ill, for his expression says it all.

"Who're you?" Deirdre asks as he is just about to speak.

"Ah, forgive me," I interject, thankful of the interruption. "Doctor Watson, meet Deirdre. She is one of my Baker Street Irregulars. Deirdre, Doctor Watson."

She shivers and pulls her coat closer to her as she gives me a confused glance. "Pleased to meet you," she says after a long moment, as opposed to asking after our friend the compudroid.

"It is indeed a pleasure," my companion returns as he shakes her by the hand. "But you are cold! Would you like a hot drink? I believe that there is a café here somewhere, for I can smell coffee."

Yes, so can I. Perhaps I shall feel better once I have had a warming drink. My stomach already appears to be settling.

"Thanks, but I should stay with my group," she replies, wrinkling her nose with distaste. "It's stupid! I walk the streets of London in the dark, but I can't be trusted on my own in a zoo in broad daylight."

I chuckle. "Perhaps they fear that one of you young things might release the tiger or kidnap a penguin."

She frowns and folds her arms, about to protest.

"I should think that it is simply a matter of the rules being in place for the safety and peace of mind of everyone," Watson cuts in hastily, resting a soothing hand upon her slender shoulder.

"In any case," I add. "I am sure that there are children in your class that are not as capable as yourself, that would get into trouble of some sort. As allowing exceptions to a rule would then render that rule quite useless thereafter, you are expected to follow the rules accordingly."

"I guess."

I smile at her. "I shall see you later my dear."

She brightens considerably. "You're restarting homework club?"

I feel my smile broaden. "As you wish. We shall provide tea at four; do you like fish and chips?"

She beams at me. "I prefer burger. Most chip shops sell 'em. I like 'em best with cheese."

Burgers again! Ugh! Well, if that is what the children of today like, I shall purchase three burgers and two pieces of fish. "Very well then. I shall keep that in mind."

She turns to walk away.

"Be sure to inform Wiggins and Tennyson," I remind her.

She turns back. "I'll let 'em know. When? Tonight?"

"The arrangement was every week night."

She grins and nods with enthusiasm. "Business as usual then. Got it. Great to see you Mr. Holmes! Nice meeting you Doctor Watson!"

"Holmes... 'Homework Club'?" my friend asks when we are alone.

I grimace. "That is what they refer to it as, not I. It all started when one of my Irregulars complained that his school is boring and the work too difficult. I could hardly encourage them to miss school because they found it dull and as for the homework..."

"I take it back Holmes," he chuckles. "It would seem that you have changed."

"Not in the slightest!" I snap. "I have always enjoyed teaching those that are willing to learn. I teach them science and mathematics, as a rule. Anything else I assist them in researching on the Internet."

He is staring at me with an expression that is usually reserved for examples of my deductive powers. Surely this revelation is not so very remarkable!

I pull my coat closer and hunch my shoulders as an icy breeze finds its way past the heavy wool fabric. "Shall we find that café?"

"Oh, of course Holmes," he responds, blinking as if returning to wakefulness. "I can see that you are cold."

I am freezing! My throat is horribly dry and sore from my gulping in lungfuls of air upon leaving the chamber of horrors at my back. I can also feel my cold nose beginning to run and, in spite of my leather gloves, my fingers are becoming quite numb with the chill.

Watson slips an arm about me and sniffs. "There would appear to be a signpost beside that flowerbed over there. Let's see if we can find that café."

We are soon sitting in a rather plain café that would seem to double as a gift shop. I have selected the quietest corner, away from noisy children, and we are sipping hot chocolate from large cups. The drinks are warming, but not as good as John's. For someone with no taste-buds or sense of smell, the fellow has an exceptional talent, or instinct, where food and drink is concerned.

"You are looking better now," Watson remarks suddenly. "What happened Holmes?"

I shake my head. "It was nothing to worry about," I assure him before taking another sip of my drinking chocolate. I do not wish to discuss this and particularly not here, where we can be overheard.

"Holmes, you looked dreadful!"

I shrug with a hand. "A headache. My head started to pain me and I thought that I should take some air."

He frowns at me for a long moment and then nods. "That would most likely be due to the chilly weather. It would have been much more comfortable for you had you remained in the warm."

I give another shrug. I have no doubt that he is absolutely correct, for my head had indeed began to pain me when I was taking that 'breath of air'. "I am beginning to feel better now, at least."

"Good! Perhaps you needed a hot drink then."

I sniff and dab at my nose with my handkerchief. The steam from my drink and the warmth of the room has only caused my annoying nose to run all the more. "I expect so."

I see my companion give a slight shiver. "It certainly is bitter! I am still trying to become warm again."

I nod gloomily. I have never much liked the cold and I too am still feeling the chill in my ears, nose and shoulders.

"I suppose it is a reminder of the approach of Christmas," Watson remarks. "How did you spend the holiday last year?"

I feel my lips quirk at the corners in a fleeting smile. "On a case, naturally."

"Oh Holmes!" he shakes his head and sniffs quietly. "Did you not have any friends to share the occasion with?"

I shrug and bark a laugh. "Well, I did share the case with John and Lestrade - and a rather irksome blue toy."

"An annoying toy," he repeats slowly, raising an eyebrow.

I laugh again. "I shall have to get John to reveal all. He enjoys telling stories almost as much as you always did and embellishes them about as much."

He smirks into his cup. "I thought that you disliked my 'embellishments' Holmes."

I simply shrug again and take another sip of my drinking chocolate. It is warming me nicely and I cannot help but emit a contented sigh.

He sniffs again and shakes his head. "How will we spend this Christmas?"

Is that not obvious? "In the manner that we shall spend any other day; together. Naturally. You, I and John. And Lestrade, if she has nothing better to do. But why are we discussing this now? It is only October, after all."

"Well... It will be our first Christmas together..."

And he is already looking forward to it. I suppose he shall want to deck the halls and purchase a tree. Ah well, I suppose his company is worth the nuisance.

"Hallowe'en comes first," I say at last with a grimace. "The Irregulars rather enjoy that... occasion..."

"What do you mean?" my companion asks of me. "Did you never attend a Hallowe'en party as a boy?"

I shake my head. "My father was a practical man; he had no time for such superstitious nonsense."

"Then you and your brother were deprived of a great deal of fun."

I wave a dismissive hand. "Be that as it may, I believe that you would strongly disapprove of the 'fun' that is had by the children of today..." I describe 'Trick or Treating' in great detail, including some of the less tasteful tricks.

"That is awful!" my friend gasps. "Whoever came up with the idea of throwing eggs at someone's house? And as for putting explosives through a letterbox..." he shudders.

I shrug with the hand that is not holding my cup. "I believe that modern 'Trick or Treating' derives from that old habit of the Irish. I am sure that you remember it from our day. I seem to recall that it was frowned upon by the majority of society at the time."

He nods and sips at his drink.

"America adopted the idea from them, made some changes, and then (for some reason that quite escapes me) we British decided that it was a good idea after all. But the culture is different in the States and our American cousins have a rather more community-spirited attitude; entire streets participate in the celebrations, I understand. It is a different matter in Britain and some villains simply use the occasion as an excuse to menace, intimidate and even rob the vulnerable. It is that that I am opposed to."

"And the Irregulars see no harm in it, I suppose."

I shrug and rub at my temple. "Why would they? Nobody else does."

"I suppose they would have no reason to see any harm in it in that case," he agrees. "Perhaps we should provide them with something else to do."

"And what would you suggest?" I ask, my interest sufficiently piqued.

A party. That is his bright idea. One in which all victims - guests - are expected to wear ridiculous costumes and play games such as apple bobbing. I dislike parties and he knows it. All the same, I am unable to find it within myself to say anything against the idea, as that would most assuredly wipe that cheerful smile from his face. I am sure that I did not feel so compelled to appease him before. What the deuce has happened to me?

"I shall think about it," I say at last.

He looks disappointed. "You dislike parties. I was forgetting."

I gaze into the depths of my drink as if it might hold the answer to my problem. "We shall see what John and Lestrade say," I decide at last. "I cannot deny that it may prove to be wise to encourage the Irregulars to come in off the streets and a party might be just the bait - I mean incentive - that we need."

He is laughing at my use of the word 'bait'. "Very well Holmes," he says once he has himself under control. "We shall see whether they like my idea or otherwise have a better suggestion. Where to now?"

I finish my drinking chocolate and wipe my mouth. "I suppose the museum might be a good port of call. I believe the food served there is quite agreeable as well, if you are hungry." If he is hungry indeed! He is probably starving, for two pieces of toast do not a hearty breakfast make.

"Can we walk it?" he enquires quietly. "I have had quite enough of flying for the moment and I doubt that I would feel able to eat after another cab journey."

Poor old Watson! I want to help him to adjust, not cause him to become all the more nervous. "Of course we can walk. Come along then."

We pull on our outdoor clothing once more, ensuring that we are as well wrapped up as we can manage. My companion falls into step with me easily and we exit the Zoo.

The walk to the museum is not an overly long one (Watson and I have walked far greater distances) and there is hardly a soul on the pavement, for most people would much rather hurtle from place to place by hovercar. Despite the ease and speed by which we make our way, we are both cold long before we reach our destination.

"Are you feeling all right Holmes?" Watson asks when I sniff and pull my coat closer.

I nod and stifle a minor sneeze. "Choo! Yes, I am p-perfect..." I stop speaking for a moment as another urge to sneeze threatens to overpower me and pull my handkerchief from my pocket. "...perfectly all right. I am cold, thaah... that is... Uhh... Choo! That is all."

"Bless you," he touches my arm as I quietly blow my nose. "If you are as cold as all that, you must also be hungry."

I am. Terribly so! I feel as if my stomach is trying to eat itself and I am becoming tired and weak. Walking seems to be taking rather a lot of effort now.

"How much further?" my companion enquires as he slips his arm through mine. He seems concerned.

I sniff. "Not much further," I assure him. All the same, my pace is slowing despite my best efforts, making the distance seem greater than it should. I had not realised that I was as cold and hungry as this.

"Are you feeling unwell?" is the next question.

I smile and shake my head. "If something was amiss I would not feel hungry. You know that. No, I am quite all right my dear fellow. But what about you?"

He squeezes my arm. "I am all the better for walking, thank you. I only hope that you are not suffering for your kindness."

"We shall be able to warm ourselves soon," I remind him with a smile. "There is nothing wrong that shelter, warmth and a good meal cannot put right."

"I most certainly hope not," he murmurs as he gives my arm another squeeze. "You are much thinner than I am; if I am feeling the chill, I dread to think how you must be faring."

Not well. My hands and feet are aching with cold, my nose would appear to have turned to ice and I am beginning to feel a new discomfort that has nothing at all to do with hunger. I should have thought about the affect that exposure to the cold can have on a fellow. I attempt to ignore the discomfort and concentrate on making my way in my usual fashion.

Watson frowns at me when I stumble slightly and steadies me with the arm that is still linked through mine. He remains silent, but his face says it all.

"I am freezing," I mutter defensively.

"Yes Holmes, I know that you are," he squeezes my arm. "I could lend you my coat..."

Absolutely not. I will not allow my Watson to freeze to death ten minutes away from our destination. "We are close now," I insist. "If I could only walk faster we would be there now."

"I dare not hurry you," he informs me with concern. "Men have died of heart failure due to exposure. I know that you are strong Holmes, but forcing you to increase your speed could still be dangerous."

I could not hurry my steps in any case. I am too weary and the discomfort in my abdomen too insistent. The first thing that I must do when we reach the museum is seek out the cloakroom.

"Are you all right?" my companion asks again.

I frown at him. "You know how I hate to repeat myself and I do believe that you have already asked me that question Watson."

"Exposure is dangerous Holmes," he repeats, as if he believes that I have somehow failed to hear or grasp that the first time. "I want you to tell me if you are becoming fatigued or feeling unwell. Is your head aching? Are you feeling dizzy?"

"No." Well, my head does pain me slightly when I breathe through my nose, but that is quite easily remedied. "Will you please stop vexing yourself needlessly? I am quite all right."

He nods and we both continue on in silence. Eventually, we reach our destination and hurry inside.

"Can we eat before we do anything else?" my friend asks. "I am quite hungry."

I grimace and step from one foot to the other. I dare not stand still for a moment now. "I am rather hungry myself old fellow, but could you please give me a moment?"

"Of course I can! Are you all right?"

No. "Yes. I just have to use the facilities."

He nods and touches my arm. "Of course Holmes. Do you know where they are?"

No I do not. I have only been here once before and not as a tourist even then; I had no reason to look for such facilities at that time. All the same, the cloakrooms are usually situated in close proximity to the restaurant in public buildings so I shall try there first. It is a safe enough bet.

Watson escorts me to the coffee shop in the centre of the downstairs exhibition area, his hand resting upon my shoulder. He seems terribly concerned and his sympathy is clear.

I am not about to inform him that my discomfort has worsened to become frightfully urgent but I suspect that he already knows in any case. He is a highly perceptive doctor and he knows me very well; I suspect that it is as obvious to him as a lie is to me. All the same, I concentrate on keeping my steps steady and even. Deceiving Watson may be a lost cause, but there is no need to make my predicament known to all and sundry. I console myself with the knowledge that I shall not have to remain thus for much longer while my irksome body informs me that that is just as well.

The facilities are indeed located in the place that I anticipated and I step inside with a deliberately calm and dignified pace. I am not a child and I am able to control myself perfectly well; I do not have to run or make a spectacle of myself in any other manner, despite the horrible throbbing in my lower abdomen. I have waited this long and I can wait a little longer.

When I rejoin my friend I am feeling hungry and exhausted. He helps me to sit down across the table from his chosen seat and frowns at me with renewed concern.

"I am all right," I assure him. "I simply do not respond well to the bitter cold."

He nods and touches my hand. "You are frozen!"

Yes, I know. The wash basins provided in the cloakroom only had one water temperature and that, of course, was icy cold. Not that my hands were very warm before I turned the faucet anyway.

"You look weary as well," he notes. "I think that we should go home once we have seen the exhibitions."

I sniff and quietly blow my nose. "I am all right."

"Let me be the judge of that Holmes. I am, after all, a doctor," he retorts.

I shrug and return my handkerchief to my pocket before removing my coat. "As you wish."

He pats my hand before straightening up. "Thank you. I think that we should take a cab home. I shall be all right."

If he is sure. I shrug again and turn my attention to the menu before me. I am famished!

"I do not think much of this menu," my companion whispers. "Whoever told you that the food here was good?"

I grimace. "Lestrade."

"I suspect that she might have been joking."

I nod. Pizza, burgers, fish fingers... all served with chips! I am willing to bet that the pizza is not a traditional Italian sort either, but rather more the type that comes frozen. I still dislike processed foods that have been filled with additives, but I suppose that I am hungry enough to eat anything.

"What are you having?" Watson asks.

I turn my attention to the 'Hot Snax' menu. Ah! Now here is something that I can eat! "A jacket (baked, they mean) potato with cheese and ham, I think. What about you?"

"Baked potato sounds much more appetising than fish fingers. I did not even know that fish had fingers! They must be very small..."

I laugh and shake my head. "Oh Watson! Fish fingers are pieces of horribly processed fish - usually cod or pollock and sometimes a mixture - that have been forced into long, thin pieces about the length and thickness of toast soldiers and wrapped in breadcrumb."

"Oh."

"If I were you, I would opt for a potato. There is little that can be done to those." Apart from pesticides of course, but I do not want to think about that; we must eat something!

He nods his agreement. "There is nothing lighter than that on the menu."

I touch his hand. "We shall remain here long enough to allow you to digest old fellow," I assure him. "And I shall make it perfectly clear to the cab driver that it would be in his best interest to provide us with a gentle ride. You shall be all right."

"Thank you Holmes," he smiles at me gratefully. "In that case, I think I shall heed your advice. A baked potato with cheese and ham sounds like just the thing."

I agree and stand with care.

"What are you doing?" my companion asks of me with concern. "Sit down Holmes."

I shake my head. "You will notice that this café does not employ waiters; I have to give our order at the counter. What do you want to drink? Tea or coffee?"

"I shall order our food," he insists. "Please Holmes, you look frightfully unwell. I know that you shall indeed be quite all right once you have eaten and become warm again, but you should still rest until you are quite recovered."

He is right of course. Exposure is indeed dangerous and I am quite weary. All the same, Watson has no money and I shall be required to pay. "I am quite all right," I assure him. "Wait here and keep our place. I shall be back in a moment."

If we both go to the counter we are bound to lose our table and I have no intention of seeking out another. I make my order, adding a pot of tea for two, and am presented with a laden tray once I have made my payment. How am I going to manage? I am bone weary.

"Allow me," the lad that is serving me offers kindly. I must look dreadful! Modern cafés do not employ staff to fetch and carry for their customers.

I shake my head. "Move the tray to one side and my friend will collect it."

"If you're sure sir."

I am and I say so. I then slowly return to our table and sink wearily into my chair. "Could you collect our food Watson?" I request.

He stands with a small smile. "Of course I can. Wait here."

Where would I go? I wait until he has his back to me and then stifle a yawn. Perhaps my recent black mood has left me in a far worse condition than I had realised, for I am sure that I have not felt like this before; not just because I have been out in the cold, at least. On the other hand, I have grown rather accustomed to my Inverness, which is much warmer than the coat that I have with me in its stead.

The sound of a plastic spoon tapping the rim of a teacup rouses my attention. "Holmes? Can you hear me?" my companion asks with concern.

"Yes Watson," I respond as I hastily attempt to recall to mind whatever it was that he was saying to me. Something about the staff, it would seem. He most likely objects to having to fetch over the tray when there are four people working behind the food counter and a further two cleaning.

He slides a cup and saucer toward me and I eagerly wrap my fingers around it. Oh! That feels better.

My friend speaks not a word but instead keeps a very close eye on me. His manner is enough to inform me that he is still terribly concerned. However, he does seem to calm himself once I have cleared my plate and had two cups of tea. It would seem that I am left looking as improved as I now feel.

"Are you feeling better?"

I nod and carefully conceal another yawn. "Yes thank you. It would seem that I was hungrier than I realised."

"That comes as no surprise Holmes," he informs me severely.

No, I suppose that it would not. I shrug indifferently. "Is there anything else that you would like?"

He shakes his head. "I think I should have a care if we are to take a cab home. You are welcome to have something else if you are still hungry."

I am not. We collect up our outdoor clothing and begin our tour of the museum in companionable silence.

As time goes on, I find myself being asked many things. Some of it I am able to answer, but other questions are going to have to be answered with the help of Lestrade and the Internet.

We eventually come to a section with entertainment as its subject. There is a gramophone, a selection of records, a number of wirelesses, a television set and numerous other items.

"Holmes!" Watson gasps suddenly, causing me to turn and hasten to his side.

I have no idea what I was expecting him to point out to me, but I do know that I was most certainly unprepared for the sight that meets my gaze as I stand beside my companion. Behind the glass before us is an old, scratched and stained upright piano, a piccolo and a violin. Not just any violin, however.

"This Stradivarius was kindly donated to the museum by the owner of the Sherlock Holmes museum upon its closure; the result of a lack of funding," my companion reads aloud. "I did wonder what had become of your violin."

I nod and slam my fist against the glass. To have found my musical instrument only to discover that it is forever lost to me is almost more than I can bear. I want it back!

"Oi! What d'you think you're doing, eh?"

We turn slowly to meet the gaze of a frowning security guard.

"I can assure you that I would not be foolish enough to be caught if I were to feel inclined to rob the museum," I inform him with a smirk.

Watson gives me a sharp nudge in the ribs. "Holmes!" he hisses at me.

"Holmes?" the guard takes a step closer and peers at me. "Sherlock Holmes?"

Ah. I feel my smirk twitch with amusement before I can quite stop it and I quickly bow my head in a polite manner to conceal it. "The very same."

He turns to my friend. "And... Doctor Watson?"

My companion smiles broadly and shakes the guard by the hand. "I am indeed."

"Pleased to meet you both. But what brings you here? Nothing's been stolen. I wouldn't have it!"

If I had a penny for every occasion on which I heard a statement of that nature, I would have a horde of very old copper coinage. 'Not on my watch' is a sentiment that means little to the criminal persuasion, I have found.

"Holmes and I are sightseeing," Watson replies cheerfully before I can so much as open my mouth. "I seem to have much to learn."

"A guided tour is it?" he asks with a bright smile. "Well, that explains why you guys are here, but it don't explain why I caught you hitting the glass. Do you think someone wants to rob the place?"

I suddenly feel rather hot about the ears and hope that I am not blushing. "No. I am afraid that I simply allowed my emotions to get the better of me."

My companion gestures in the direction of my Stradivarius. "You have his violin."

"Oh. But that was donated to the museum almost three years ago, when the... I mean..."

"When 211B Baker Street ceased to open its doors as the Sherlock Holmes museum," I nod wearily and wave a dismissive hand. "I know. I know all about the museum and its closure."

Watson pats my back. "We shall find you another violin."

"They are antiques," I tell him miserably. "A good violin, still in top condition, is as difficult to come by as a perfect gem," I snort and shake my head, "and probably just as expensive." I wish I had not seen it. I would rather not know where my violin had disappeared to in my absence.

"You know, skilled violinists are just as rare..." the guard begins with a small smile.

No! Absolutely not! I know exactly what he is about to suggest, and I am sure that he believes himself to be being kind, but I have only ever played to help myself to think or to soothe my dear friend of old. I could not possibly perform here for an audience.

I realise that the guard has continued to explain his idea and that Watson in turn is endeavouring to explain to him what my violin is for. He knows me so well, even after all this time!

The guard gives my companion an address to write to, in order to appeal for the safe return of my instrument, but he does not hold out much hope. Neither do I; museums like to be able to boast about holding a treasure or two and I am still famous enough for my name to add extra value to my possessions.

Watson remains optimistic. I would be much more aggravated by this if I did not suspect the show of optimism to be meant to reassure me. My companion is, after all, terribly kind-hearted.