Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

Observations of a Boswell

The Case

"Well, Lestrade?" Gregson asked from the doorway as we sat in the Inspectors office. Watson had resumed his jacket and Sweetie was once more reunited with her master. I had never seen a dog so large dance so lightly when she had caught sight of Watson and moved to greet him.

"Not really," Lestrade replied heavily, handing over the last of the files that he had gathered on the serial killer to me, "We've got a third Red Silk victim, ahead of schedule too. If he's speeding up that means things are only going to get worse."

Gregson muttered an oath under his breath, before he heaved a sigh, looking at the file in his hands.

"Give me a minute to put this on Barnwell's desk, then I'll come and join you," he sighed. Watson leaned back in his chair, his right leg stretched out in front of him, one hand idly rubbing between Sweetie's shoulders. The dog looked very pleased with the attention, though my dear friend was probably only moving by habit. He had that distant look that said he was thinking carefully about the case before us. That look was the one I saw most often before he offered a comment that shed light upon the seemingly impenetrable matter at hand; it was one I had come to rely on in the course of our years of work.

"Are you going to be helping us then, Mr Holmes?" Gregson announced his return, scuffling the chair he'd brought with him into place and shutting the door on the rest of the Yard. With the door shut Lestrade's small office became positively claustrophobic, considering there were four grown men and a dog the size of a small horse enclosed within it.

"If I am permitted to do so," I replied stiffly and my Watson shot me a worried look. I was well aware that after three years of absence the Yard's policy on consulting detectives may well have changed; I also had enough manners in me to recognise that I couldn't appear to sweep in and simply take over their more interesting cases. Watson had always laboured to bridge the gaps between the Yard and myself – he was in no condition at the moment to do so. A touch of circumspection was called for.

"I won't deny that we're on a hiding to nowhere with it," Gregson sighed, "Three bodies, kept in three different locations before they were discovered in three different parts of London. The only commonality, apart from their cause of death and general treatment, has been their age and occupation."

"Which Dr Watson has already told us is significant," Lestrade sighed, "The man doing this is probably acting on his anger at or fixation with a young kitchen maid who has been intimately involved with him outside of wedlock. The resulting condition was terminated, which is what has triggered his rage and these attacks."

"The fact that he has access to diverse locations is significant," Gregson added, "Most serials find a lair and stay there."

"True," Watson stirred from his thoughts, "I'd lay more significance on his occupational markers though. Shorter than average height with increased upper body strength. Has access to cellars near to water; also can access some form of private transport for the movement of the bodies."

"It's a broad description, Doctor," Gregson complained, "Can't you narrow it down any further?"

"Not as yet," Watson sighed, "There is something nagging at me, something that is right in front of me, that I've seen but not observed… if I can catch whatever it is, I'll let you both know."

"We'd best let you get on then," Lestrade waved a hand at the door, "Mr Holmes I'll let you take those files home provided they're back on my desk tomorrow morning sharp. Doctor, will you complete her autopsy then? We have a few leads to her identity; I'm hoping we'll have a name to go with her by tomorrow."

"Very well, Lestrade," Watson nodded and got up slowly, allowing Sweetie to press against his legs to steady him.

"Thank you Lestrade," I enjoyed the look of shock on the Yarder's face and nodded to Gregson on our way out. We walked silently from the Yard, but once outside I took my Watson's arm and directed him towards the cab rank.

"I rather fancy lunch at Simpsons," I told him, "If that suits of course. Sweetie could be accommodated in their cloak room I am sure…"

"I would enjoy that," Watson nodded, twining his arm in mine companionably. It was evident to me that enjoyment was not something he'd had of late or at least something he'd experienced only very rarely. On the whole I was very displeased with the state I found him in, something that I was determined to improve at once, if not sooner.

This case from the Yard, macabre though it was, was heaven sent. It would allow us to re-establish our working partnership and the agency. It would also give me further insight into the grief stricken man my friend had become. I flatter myself that my mere presence was alleviating some of this grief, as Watson was certainly less bowed down than he had been only yesterday.

I was not pleased with our separate living arrangements though, and made a mental note to speak to Mrs Hudson about accommodations for Sweetie. Watson would recover much more quickly under our joint care and in our presence than apart from us. It was evident that his household contained only a minimal number of staff and that he was seeing to a number of domestic chores himself. Mrs Hudson was much better equipped to deal with such chores and in addition her cooking was so much better than his. He could regain some much needed weight without the burden of preparing his own meals, something that I had also come to loathe in the three years we had been apart.

All that remained was to convince my dearest friend that his return to Baker Street was in his best interest.

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