July 15, 1881

3:17 a.m.

Yes, a.m. This is a ludicrous hour of the morning to be doing much of anything other than scraping away on my violin (a pastime in which I have been engaging for the last half-hour, until my arm began to ache quite cruelly…and Mrs. Hudson began pounding on the ceiling of her downstairs apartments with what I assume is a broom handle), but I am not at all drowsy and therefore am not bothering to attempt slumber.

The good Doctor ranted for a full twenty-three minutes and seventeen seconds earlier about the benefits of rest and quiet in regards to convalescence from illness and injury, etc., etc.; but after I ignored him for the entirety of the diatribe and finally ended with balling up the Evening Standard and tossing it good-naturedly at his head, he desisted and stalked off to his bedroom. His parting volley was a warning that if my fever returned due to my indiscretions then I could "jolly well send for another physician," as he no longer cared if I insisted upon killing myself.

I only laughed at his testiness and waved him good-night, for I well know that he would in reality attend on the instant were I to fall ill again. Predictability, thy name is John H. Watson. (Aside: I wonder what the H stands for? Now that would be a fascinating topic of after-dinner conversation, once I am fully recovered enough for another verbal sparring match and once he is in a better mood; namely, not exhausted and cross. Wait, no…because then I should be expected to divulge my own second name, and I shall die a thousand slow and painful deaths first. No court in the land would exonerate my parents from bestowing such a dreadful name upon a helpless infant.)

Returning to the subject at hand – routine is a trait in which I delight, and consistency is a truly singular characteristic in most men of this age; that is one reason why I have no qualms about admitting that the Doctor does less to drive me to insanity than most of these mortals with whom I am forced to traverse the path of life.

But to abruptly alter the topic (for upon re-reading this journal I find that this man has been occupying an unhealthy segment of my thoughts for quite some time), I have only just finished sorting through my correspondence that has lain unwept, unhonoured, and unsung for the last week. Such an amalgamation of letters, telegrams, complaints from the Yard about my nicking (I prefer to think of it as long-term borrowing) evidence from crime scenes, and only one interesting letter regarding a suspicious insurance claim from a firm I have helped with such matters in the past. Unfortunately, the office will not open for another seven hours and so I am compelled to inactivity until then.

Hence the impromptu violin recital, of which Mrs. Hudson was clearly not appreciative. I have no idea if Watson liked it, did not care, did not wake up, or else is currently sitting upstairs cursing me in one of those Eastern languages he is passably fluent in.

Ah, the rain seems to be petering away; the storm is moving across the Channel and leaving a half-drowned London in its wake. The streets will be a horrible mess tomorrow. I must remember not to wear my good suit, for the last time I did after a rainstorm an omnibus splashed mud and decaying leaves all over me – and this just before I was to meet my brother at the Diogenes for his opinion on a trifling little murder in Hampshire. Neat little case, that, if of slight pecuniary benefit to my state of finances.

Perhaps this insurance investigation shall prove to be diverting enough that I shall not go completely mad with boredom. The only thing possibly worse than being ill is recovering from it and having absolutely nothing with which to pass the time. I suppose I could begin memorizing the encyclopedia as my brother used to do in his leisure when we were children, or taking up a new hobby – I am thinking of the skeleton I have, residing at present up in the lumber-room; taking it apart, then attempting to string it back together in the proper bone order. After all, I have a resident Doctor to check my work and make certain I have not attached the femur to the clavicle or something equally mutated. Though I highly doubt he would enjoy rising in the morning to find phalanges and vertebrae strewn all over the sitting room like so many pieces of a jigsaw-puzzle. Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, most likely would just sniff and inform me that I would not receive breakfast until I put my toys away.

Upon re-reading this potential client's letter, I am contemplating bringing the Doctor along tomorrow when I go to see this insurance company. He told me over dinner, upon my inquiry, that he had informed his clinic to not expect him until further notice, as he had no idea how long I should be unwell. To think that my illness has cost the man a good six days' worth of patients, even if few of those East End-ers are paying ones, is no less than guilt-inducing (an emotion which I make a habit of squelching, as it is far too uncomfortable a sensation to indulge in safely). I at least owe the chap luncheon in the Strand, if nothing else, though I have the feeling he should deny both that stark statement of fact and the offer, unless handled with great finesse (admittedly not a strong suit of mine).

But besides this, he has been a positive bear of late, and the exercise and activity might both improve his disposition and also be of substantial use to me, for at least then I should be able to examine his neat notes of the case rather than attempting to decode my own hieroglyphic scrawl.

Oh…either I awakened him with my violin, or else he was prey to another of those ghastly nightmares, for I can hear him pacing now overhead, uneven and slow. Of course I have known since shortly after entering tenement here that the man is haunted by a variety of ghosts that only he can know the true horror of. No dark alley in London could possibly present the same terrors to my active imagination as he sees on a fairly frequent basis; though these visions have (thankfully for his health and my peace of mind) decreased of late and usually only manifest themselves when he is particularly tired or has had an inordinately stressing day.

But the solitary time I, in an atypical fit of sentimentality, attempted to at least make the standard endeavor to ascertain if he was all right after one of such dreams, my awkward efforts were repelled almost immediately and the confrontation ended rather roughly for both of us. The fellow's pride runs almost too deeply to be reasonable, and my ability to be reassuring is (obviously) considerably deficient.

And as I have absolutely no idea how to rectify either problem, I have chosen the sensible method of keeping my distance and allowing him to work things out for himself. It is an amicable arrangement, I believe, though I cannot help but feel there is a better solution staring me in the face and yet I am too blind to see it.

I do wish he could sleep at the moment, though, for if I have to awaken him in the morning to attend that insurance meeting and he has not, he will be an insufferable grump. I do not much like having water-pitchers flung at my head come eight o'clock of a morning (not that that has happened since I accidentally dripped wax on his nose from the candle, that frosty morning last February) or to be sworn at in a sleepy, distorted-Scottish burr.

Perhaps a quieter melody on my instrument of choice, something more reminiscent of springtime and peaceful skies rather than shards of brick being raked across a wet pane of glass, is in order, for both our sakes. And respective sanities.

3:48 a.m.

He is asleep again, and I certainly hope he appreciated my efforts for my arm aches quite sharply now.

But I am slightly drowsy myself now, and so shall betake myself to my own bed for a few hours as I cannot go up and dig through the clutter after my new proposed hobby; the lumber-room is above his bedroom and I doubt dragging a skeleton down the stairs would be beneficial to his remaining asleep.

Pity.