From the memoirs of John H. Watson

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The yellow winter sun rose and flashed harshly across the lids of my closed eyes, drawing me out of my disturbed sleep and disconcerting dreams. I rolled over lazily and noted the clock. I had only slept for five hours. I flung off the coverlet and stared at The low ceiling above my head, gathering my resolve for the day.

Finally pushing myself reluctantly out of the bed, I gathered my clothes and dressed quickly, anxious to see what had become of my friend since his slip into melancholy last night and a bit anxious for a draught of warming tea. The cool air bit at my toes and shoulders as I readied myself.

Entering the equally cold sitting room, I observed that Mrs. Hudson had already set breakfast, though it was untouched. The man I shared rooms with lay sprawled on the sofa, his back to me and a discarded copy of Whitman's Leaves of Grass on the floor beside him. I pressed a hand to the coffee pot, feeling that it was at least still warm, though the eggs and rashers had already cooled. I glanced at Holmes, who hadn't stirred, apparently in so deep a sleep that he had not heard my movements.

His arm lay tossed over the back of the couch and the tale-tell sign of his up-rolled shirtsleeve confirmed to me that my closest friend had succumbed once again to that vile drug that helped him through hard times. And apparently not just the drug, as I noticed that the decanter of brandy was empty, and the small bottle of Linie akvavit he received from a grateful Norwegian man he'd helped a few years prior, was opened and half-empty.

I poured a bit of coffee and settled down to breakfast; determined not to yield to the growing concern I felt in my chest. I was a physician, it was true, but I had learned long ago that it was near impossible to convince Holmes of the benefits of any medical advice. Even in the rare cases when he was subject to common ailments, I was hard pressed to convince him to lay low and rest so that he could heal. In fact, it had seemed at times that my insufferable roommate went out of his way to disobey my orders. And in the case of his stimulants, that was never truer.

I had more than once seriously considered tossing that horrid morocco case and its contents out of the bay window or perhaps crushing those delicate vials and syringe under my boot heel; sometimes I still entertained those thoughts, but I refused to caution my stubborn friend about the effects of the drugs any more. His mulish refusal to see wisdom and act in a manner befitting of a man possessing so much common sense, all made me diffident and backwards in crossing him.

Besides, any words of admonition or concern would be ignored. So to discuss it would be a waste of both our valuable time and breath.

As I was spreading Mrs. Hudson's delectable peach jam onto my slice of morning toast, though, I could not but shoot quick glances at my friend's sleeping form. Holmes was wearing the same clothes as the night before, sans his overcoat and jacket, which were rumpled and crushed by his curled up position. The unsettling thought that he looked as still as death crossed my mind for a horrible moment. I shook my head and rid myself of such an idea. His chest was moving, so he was obviously still among the living.

The stillness and shallow breathing of my acquaintance still concerned me greatly and halfway into my tea, I debated whether I should rouse him, at least to see if I could or not. I wondered how cross he'd be if I woke him. I had to admit to a certain fear of his anger, though he was hardly prone to fits of noisy anger or violence. But I hated to think that I would displease him in some way, and that sharp mind of his made him capable of biting, and often accurate, comments and observations.

I fidgeted in my place; staring at the unconscious man I called my closest friend. I rose from my seat, my affection for my roommate finally overriding my hesitancy to annoy him. Besides, I reasoned, it was not as if I were going to lecture him about his behavior, I was merely going to check his pulse to be sure he was not on the verge of a heart attack. There was no conceivable way in which he could find fault with that. Before I could move around the corner of the table, however, Holmes shifted a bit, arching his back and uttering a noise that was a cross between a whimper and a groan that was troubling to hear. His head drew up from under his arm and settled on the armrest of the couch. I could see his sharp profile, with the light filtering in and casting a glow onto his face. There were deep lines under his eyes and tightness to his jaw even at rest. He looked as though he'd aged a good ten years in the past night alone.

Now standing, I wondered what to do now that I could rest assured that my companion was still breathing and capable of movement. Holmes was not usually knocked out so sufficiently by his frequent doses of cocaine or morphine. I wondered if the volatile mix of spirits and drugs were affecting him negatively, or perhaps he had injected himself with a higher dosage than usual. Either way, his actions revealed a recklessness that even Holmes was not usually prone to.

I sauntered nonchalantly to the mantle-piece and ran a hand over the valued case that housed my friend's cherished syringe and vials, curious to see if I could deduce the percentage that Homes had indulged in during the early morning. It was unusual behavior for him to treat himself to his drug while investigating a mystery. It was the norm for his exhilaration from a case to elevate him past the need for artificial stimulants. The adrenaline of natural thrill was even stronger than the chemicals, and due to this, Holmes was usually indifferent to the drugs while working. It was odd, even frightening, for him to behave in such a way as he was now.

A tired voice cut into my thoughts, carrying through the space with a lazy, drawn-out clarity that startled me. "It was only the usual seven-percent solution, my dear Watson. You can stop hovering about like some bloody, clucking mother hen."

I jumped, and proceeded to take a moment to school my features so that he would not see my surprise. I straightened the hem of my jacket, trying my very best to appear nonplussed as I turned to face the couch and its evidently moody occupant. I crossed my arms and waited patiently for him to speak first. Holmes' eyes were still closed, though his face was turned in my direction as if he knew exactly where I stood without seeing me.

He arched a dark and elegant eyebrow. His long eyelashes shrouded his grey eyes as he cracked them open to stare impassively at me for a moment, taking in my rigid stance with a quick, neutral glance. "I said you could stop hovering over me now, Watson."

"Yes. I believe that you already mentioned that." I retorted slowly, trying to gauge his mood and foresee his reaction to my concern. I still did not move from the mantle-piece, uncomfortable that I had been caught snooping.

Those sharp, grey eyes closed again and Holmes snuggled more into the couch, a bitter half smile marring his features. "I know, but it bears repeating apparently." He replied lazily, stretching his neck until a resounding pop echoed through the room.

A moment passed before I decided to throw myself to the lions once more, if only to honor my duty as a doctor. "I know I am merely saying the same thing that I have said a thousand times before but…. as a physician, albeit a humble one…"

Holmes laughed shortly, cutting into my words with sharp insolence, "A very humble one."

I flushed up to my roots with indignation and embarrassment at the disparaging remark, turning from him in an effort to restrain myself from lashing back at him in kind.

Though Holmes did not move or open his eyes, the sudden stiffness of his shoulders betrayed his own regret at his careless words. "You must forgive me, old man," he apologized after a moment, "that was unfair of me. I'm not thinking straight, I'm half-cut and tired."

"No, no, by all means, if that is how you truly feel." My response was suffused with more than a smidge of huffiness, though I am certain that I was quite justified.

Holmes moved to look at me. He began to speak before the door swung open, leaving what the morose detective was thinking unsaid. The patient and long-suffering Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, the day's mail in her hands. She passed the correspondences over to me after a moment's hesitation, casting a cutting eye over my friend's disheveled appearance. At her questioning glance in my direction, I shook my head, not bothering to hide my irritation from the astute landlady.

"Many of those telegrams are from the Yard, but I sent Billy to inform them that you were occupied and that they should not expect an answer anytime soon. I assume that was acceptable to you?" She asked her young tenant. He waved her off with a nod of his head.

She exited quietly, averse to getting tangled into any kind of talk with Holmes while he was so obviously in a black mood. Through years of intimate acquaintance, the Scotswoman had become quite acclimated to her moody lodger and his ways.

Holmes glared at the door through which she'd disappeared, as if resentful that she had left him alone with my simmering anger and me. He finally stood shakily, stretching out like a cat until his muscles shook with relief. He shifted through the correspondence. He held up a letter to me in one large hand, throwing it to me. "Could you read that?" I caught the envelope clumsily, shocked that he would have such audacity to order me about after failing to adequately apologize for his earlier rudeness.

He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and wetted his lips as I tore open the post, annoyance apparent in my movements. He did not seem to notice, or pretended not to.

I read the letter silently to myself, taking extra time simply to aggravate him, and then tossed it back to him defiantly. I was in no mood to follow after his every beck and call. He was unprepared for my action, and swiped at the paper as it soared through the air towards him but missed it entirely. It landed on the table in front of him. He glared at me, or rather, at the letter, before picking it up and scanning it.

An eyebrow arched gracefully as he read. He murmured under his breath, that characteristic hum that was inscrutable.

"Do you think anything it reveals is important in any way?" I inquired. Holmes' fervent admirer from Down Under had informed us that Mr. Douglas had suddenly become deadly ill. He was bed-ridden in his house, and being cared after by a nurse. He had visited the man personally, under the pretense of merely seeing how his former inmate was faring on the outside world, and had seen for his own eyes that the man was quite incapacitated.

"I think the information would be of great significance if he was in possession of any substantial amount of funds."

"Well, does he have any?"

"The truth of the matter is that Douglas was never especially adept at keeping a firm hand around his money for any significant amount of time. Any funds he ever did happen to acquire were quickly squandered away on his superfluous extravagances and some other….various services."

I fell into deep thought, worrying my lip in an attempt to focus on the matter at hand. I forced my mind to work, trying to use my friend's methods to come up with something brilliant. "His stationary seems to be very expensive…is that not a telling fact?" This thin deduction was the best thought I could come up with.

"That would normally lead me to believe that he was financially secure. But, in the case of this man, it may just as well be that he is living outside his means. It would not be the first time that Douglas spent money that he actually did not have." A thoughtful look came over his face and he jotted down a quick telegram in a shaky hand and stuffed it into his trouser pocket.

I was going to ask him what he was up to, but Lillian appeared in the threshold before I could even begin to speak, her curvy figure seeming almost fragile in the large space of the doorway. She stared at her brother for a bit, casting me a sidelong glance once she detected the tension on the room and the intense look upon Holmes' face. After a moment of silence, she asked him tersely if there were any new developments in the investigation.

"Your father is dying." He responded abruptly, his voice neutral to the point of coldness.

She simply stared at him, while I flinched inwardly at the blunt wording of the information.

"Alright, and this concerns me in what way?" Her throaty voice held no emotion.

"Do you know what his financial status is at present?" My friend took a long drag of his newly lit cigarette and blew out the blue smoke above our heads, squinting at her with that particularly searching gaze that was peculiar to him.

She shrugged, looking a bit annoyed that he was quizzing her on her knowledge of her estranged father. "He never kept a firm hold on his money."

He stared at her for a while, as if weighing his next move. He moved to the couch, retrieving his coat. "Are you going out with your Michael today?" He asked casually.

She visibly bristled at his nosy question. "Yes, we are rendezvousing to go for a walk later this afternoon. Why do you ask?"

"Where does your Michael work?"

She sighed softly at his random questions. "He works in stocks on Norburry Street; at the Parker's business. Why do you ask?" The inquiry was forceful this time but Holmes ignored it and her subsequent annoyance.

"Mr. Church must be quite a fascinating man, seeing as he was able to woo you. I'd like to meet him at some time."

She fidgeted suddenly with her gloves and I wondered if she were nervous about what her brother would think of her beau. Or perhaps she heard a strain of patronization in his cheeky praise of her fiancé.

She took a deep breath. "I suppose I could bring him by tomorrow."