CHAPTER 11

THE WEDNESDAY AFTER

The next day Mary awoke feeling rejuvenated, and insisted on dragging John out with her into the green field. She grabbed him by the hand and yanked him up from his chair, his paper falling askew to the floor. "It will be fun, John dear! I hardly got to see you yesterday, I missed you!" Watson had wanted to ask her what she proposed to do on the days he was stuck within the confines of his office meeting with clients, but he kept his mouth shut. He hadn't let himself consider what she would do (or think) on the days he was ran off to help Holmes in a remote county, assisting him in what would seem to be an unsolvable case for anyone else. He allowed Mary to lead the way through fields and down dirt paths, worn soft by the countless young lovers and ardent hunters that came before them. He chatted with her about banal issues – again with furnishings, curtains, what sort of bread he preferred during the week. Watson was beginning to feel impatient. He wanted to raise his voice and demand that she stop. He just didn't care! He didn't care about curtains, or bread, or whether they should get a small dog! He already had a dog! Gladstone was a perfectly good dog when Holmes wasn't drugging him! A thought occurred to Watson - perhaps he if took one of the horses for the carriages and started off now he could get to Baker Street in four hours? Of course, if he mentioned to Mary his idea about taking a day ride she would insist upon going along. He wondered if Holmes was thinking of him, or whether he had shrugged off the past week as if it never happened.

Mrs. Hudson had been afraid to go upstairs to check on her lodger. Normally, when Holmes was being wretched, she could count on the doctour to smooth the waters so that she could deliver some tea or mutton pie. Lately though... ever since Watson proposed to his wife and gave her a ring, Holmes had become more of a menace. This last month was absolutely trying, although it merely seemed almost paltry in comparison to the detective's full-scale tantrum since his roommate had left.

"Mister Holmes, I've come to deliver provisions!" she cried from outside the door.

"I'm not hungry!" he shouted back.

"But I can't recall you taking food since early Monday." She had delivered some tea and scones, although she wasn't sure what Holmes had actually eaten as she heard a loud crash and various items being pummeled against the wall. She'd assumed that those were the scones, and had hoped that he hadn't ruined her tea set.

"I've ingested plenty!" bellowed the voice from the other side of the door.

"Mister Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson didn't have a grasp on the amount of chemicals that Holmes put into his body aside from his pipes and the drinking, but she often wondered how much longer Holmes would last before pickling his liver. The landlady sighed, knowing that even if she was allowed entry into the man's living quarters, she would likely be aghast at what she saw. She didn't have the energy to be yelled at today, so instead she left the tray outside the door. "It's here then when you want it," she cried out before turning and heading down the stairs.

Holmes would eventually retrieve the tray of a then-cold open-faced turkey sandwich with gravy and potatoes, and coffee. He picked at the sandwich a bit, but he could muster no appetite. He needed a release. He found a clean syringe and withdrew a few cubic centimeters of his seven percent solution, injecting it into his veins with expert skill. His head fell back in his chair and he closed his eyes as the world began to swirl around him. His hands instinctively searched the floor near his armchair until they found his violin and bow. His fingers started to play the song he'd written about John and Gladstone. Screaming, he threw the instrument away. Why wasn't he back by now? Sherlock had been almost certain that John would have arrived, suitcase in hand, explaining how things just weren't working out and how he needed to come back. He would have admitted that marrying the trout-faced harpy was a mistake, and he would insist upon staying there on Baker Street with Holmes until one of them died, or Mrs. Hudson kicked them out. Instead, Holmes was alone.

The last thing his conscious mind would remember was the dog's loud snore before he passed out on the floor, splayed spread eagle on the worn rug.

John and Mary shared a locally-caught fish for dinner that was prepared by the house's live-in cook. The help seemed accustomed to an ever-changing cast of characters temporarily inhabiting the cottage. Regardless, the cook's talent was undeniable. They were presented with a glazed pear tart for dessert. Mary, who adored pears, was enchanted with the meal's ending. John wasn't used to having so many sweets within a week's time, and would have preferred a nice steak and kidney pie, or roast with potatoes and carrots. He didn't need an overly-sweet dessert to satisfy him- a nice sherry would have done just fine.

After dinner the couple retired to the sitting room to enjoy a sizable fire for a few hours before Mary suggested they retreat into the bedroom for the night. Knowing that he couldn't reasonably deny her request and its implications for yet another night, Watson complied. After setting aside his paper, he followed Mary into the bedroom. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable on the bed, darling, while I go and freshen up a bit?" Mary suggested.

Watson sat on the bed to remove his shoes as his new bride excused herself to enter the bath. It only took a mere five minutes before Mary reappeared from the adjoining room. Her slight body was enveloped in a dainty pink gauze. "Is – that a negligee?" Watson asked.

"Oh John! Don't tell me you've never seen one. A man of your experience!" Mary purred as she sauntered over to the bed. John felt compelled to look away. He wasn't sure that he could do this... He felt ashamed, embarrassed, caught in the beginning of an act which he could barely acknowledge. Watson realised with a sudden dawning that Mary, his new bride, was an attractive choice, a choice to appear normal – she was his Adler! The thought chilled him, and he had an instant urge to vomit. He jogged to the toilet in the adjoining room and stood over it in case his gut reaction decided to show itself. Mary screamed, she had been prepared for her second deflowering, this time to a man who wouldn't die, and here her new groom was vomiting! All over the floor! "John!" she screamed, before running away. She had run to find a servant and ask him to clean up the mess, but realised that she would need to find something to wrap around her flimsy outfit. John couldn't help himself, although he felt guilty for depriving Mary. She really only wished for what every new bride wanted – a memorable night of wedding consummation with her new husband. For that, John could not fault her, although that still did not lessen his disgust at what most certainly would have taken place had he not had to expel the night's fish from his system.

Watson wiped his mouth on the back of his hand as he headed out to find his wife being guided back into their room by a member of the staff. "The Misses says you was sick, sir."

"Uh, yes, yes. I was. It was just a bit of nausea, but I think I might be okay now." He was careful to put his condition in maybes, because if he, a doctour, gave random self-diagnoses, he risked being caught in a lie should they encounter anyone else with medical training. Holmes was not a doctour, but even he would know that a diagnosis of influenza would be suspicious given Watson's otherwise liveliness before accepting Mary's suggestion to retire to their rented bedroom.

Feeling slightly guilty for the idea that came so quickly to him, Watson asked the servant to fetch his bag. With his back turned to the bathroom, which was being cleaned by the hired help while Mary was heading to the kitchen for some peppermint tea to calm her new husband's stomach woes, Watson opened his black traveling bag and began rummaging inside. Upon realising that what he wanted was in his jacket pocket, he grabbed the envelope that Holmes had given him, and grabbed two of the capsules designed to lull their target to sleep. Mary was coming back with a tray of tea, when Watson turned around to greet her. "I'm so sorry."

"It only matters that you feel better, John. Here, drink this." She handed him one cup of tea while pouring a second for herself.

"Thank you." He drew the cup to his lips, feeling its steam envelope his mustache. He steeled himself for what he must say next. "Mary? Mary, dear? I've been thinking, and," he paused to think, "I think that I'd ought to give you a booster to help your immune system should you be privy to what bothered me just now. Here, my love, take these pills. They should help."

"You're so thoughtful, John. Thank you." Mary did as she was told, unaware that she just took enough barbiturate to fell two men the size of her husband. Meanwhile, Watson suggested that she get into bed while he wash up from the previous excitement, helping her into bed lest the drugs take effect before she had a chance to drop her head near her pillow. He tucked the coverlet around her as if she were a sleeping child, hoping that in his haste he hadn't overdrugged her.

Watson waited to begin his final preparations until after Mary had been quietly sleeping for a half hour's time. He then ripped a page out of his most recent journal and began writing. He had worried that the letter would be difficult to write, however, words came to him so quickly that he was barely able to maintain a legible hand. He first explained his absence. Next, he apologized. He omitted telling his wife the real truth behind his abrupt departure, merely stating that he didn't think he could be the man she deserved and that he needed to listen to his heart. He was leaving her the packet of money that Holmes had provided as a wedding gift. Watson was unaware, but it had contained notes amounting to over 400 pounds – more than enough to allow her to live comfortably for well over a year. That, combined with the gifts from her family's acquaintances (none of which John kept), most of them at least as wealthy as Colonel himself, would provide for Mary for quite some time- long enough for her to get over her broken heart and find a new, better husband. Meanwhile, he needed to wake one of the servants and start his bags off toward Baker Street.

His trunks arrived a day before he did. Holmes didn't think too much of it, he'd figured that perhaps Watson's new abode wasn't quite as spacious as anticipated. He had given up the idea of the other man coming back three days ago. He'd spent hours in bed, such that he hadn't bothered to change out of his wedding attire. Mrs. Hudson commented how he might have a spot of a cold, although she actually suspected that Holmes, despite all his protestations, preferred not to live alone after such a long time with a flatmate.

After slipping the drowsy servant a few pounds, Watson had convinced him to call into the neighbouring town and arrange for a hansom to take away his trunks. He then scrounged around until he could find coffee grounds and boiled some water, figuring that he could make use of one of the house's mugs until he could find a way to get back to London. (Granted, he had no way to strain the water through the grounds, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Besides, drinking the grounds would probably help keep him awake, as he was preparing for one of the longest nights of his life.) One would admit that perhaps he hadn't thought out his escape plan very well after the drugging of his wife, but he had felt on the verve of a panic attack. In fact, one would argue that Dr. John Watson had never been so unnerved on any battlefield, with shrapnel and screaming flying all around him.

Anyone who knew Watson at all knew that his leg liked to bother him at the most inopportune times. Yet, somehow, the middle-aged doctour walked for four hours with only his cane, his travel medical bag, and the misappropriated mug. After finishing the vile coffee, Watson had considered just abandoning the mug, but thought better of it when he realised that someone with Holmes' skills would easily be on his trail. (Of course, Holmes would also be able to track him due to the use of his cane on dirt country roads, but in his sleep-deprived state Watson hadn't the foresight to consider it.)

Feeling as though he was going to have to walk down the same road for the rest of his life, Watson finally saw a farmer who was beginning his day by taking a trip out to his barn. He shouted out to get the older man's attention, and tried to trot towards the farmer's field, stumbling on his way to the wooden fence separating the farmer's land from the road. "Hello, hello there! Good morning!"

"Hello there yourself. It's awfully early for a walk now, isn't it?" The old man, upon walking towards the fence to meet Watson, was drawn to the doctor's pronounced limp. "Are you okay there, son?"

"I, no." Watson caught his breath. "I've been walking for hours, there's no cabs around this part. I'm used to the hustle and bustle of London. Even at three in the morning you can find the errant carriage willing to take you home."

"I see." The man looked guardedly towards Watson, unsure of how to gauge a city man he'd never met.

"Actually, I was hoping that perhaps you could help me out. You see, I've been out to see a patient and need to get back to my practice. I'm a doctour. If there was some way that I could pay you for the use of a horse perhaps, if you had one which you could spare for a day or two? I would send it back to you after I got back to my office." Despite his mind's heaviness, the lie came easily and he held up his bag to prove the truth of his profession to the farmer.

"Well, I suppose."

"And how much could I pay you for such a service? I've got 15 pounds on me, and I would gladly send you a check for 15 more back with whoever returns your beast to you."

The farmer, unaccustomed to getting paid so handsomely, smirked in surprise. "Well, I suppose. I suppose that would be fair enough, providing you're a man of your word, that is."

Watson ignored the fact that he was running out on the woman to whom he'd only just pledged his life and love. "I'm Doctour John Watson, of 221-B Baker Street, London. I'll gladly shake your hand and provide you with all the money I've got on me to show my character."

"Well, alright then." The farmer shook his hand, admiring the gloves hanging out of Watson's coat. "Although, say, it wouldn't be fair of me to take all that you've got on you. If we made it 10 pounds and then maybe those nice gloves, my hands sure do get cold in the mornings." The man's eyes gleamed when he saw the fair leather. The gloves were surely worth more than five pounds, however, he was not the one pleading for the bargain.

Watson looked down. They were the gloves Mary had given him as a wedding gift, the gloves that enraged Holmes who viewed them as a replacement. In fact, he surely felt replaced altogether by Watson's departure. "Sure we can! Although, if you had something warm that I could refill my mug with and stop for a half hour before resuming my trip, I would be greatly obliged."

The farmer, feeling as though he'd just taken the kiddy in a particularly heated hand of poker, smiled wildly. "I'll do better than that, even! If you've been walking since your appointment, you could use a few hours of sleep. There's bales o' hay out in the barn, and I could get a blanket from inside the house, if you like. Of course, what with my wife and our youngest daughter still in the house, I can't invite you in, but I can at least give you a respite of sorts."

Watson returned the smile. "That sounds superb. I've yet to meet such a fine gentleman in quite some time. Here are those gloves now."

Sherlock decided to bathe, because even in his depressed, blackened state, he could yet realise (alas, he could nearly smell himself!) that he was rank, to say the least. He did, however, re-dress in the clothes in which he last touched Watson, the clothes he'd been wearing since the doctour's nuptials. Their bodies had been pressed together in what was almost a lovers' embrace. Hell, if only the two men had been unclothed, Sherlock would have stayed in nothing but his birthday suit this entire time. Holmes chuckled to himself ruefully – perhaps it was for the best that they had been fully dressed. If the two men had been sans clothes, Sherlock would have been even less inclined to bathe! Oh, but what Mrs. Hudson must think, regardless!

Perhaps it was in part because Watson had forced them upon him, perhaps it was the thought that maybe bathing with them would provide him an extra day before his filth overcame his own senses, but Holmes had decided to run a steaming bath with the salts that Watson had left in his possession. Of course, the thought that he had been forced to bathe in an effort to make himself presentable for Ms. Mary Morstan made him grimace, but Holmes tried instead to remember the surprising forcefulness in which John had strong-armed him to surrender to a bath. In the claw-footed tub, alone with his thoughts and the vanilla scent wafting up from the dissolved salts, Holmes closed his eyes, let his head rest on the side of the tub, and began to visualize Watson alone, lying on his bed. The detective's fingertips met in a peak above the steaming water, reminiscent of the pose they took when he was deep in thought or contemplation of a yet-unsolved puzzle.

It was certainly odd that Watson insisted on sleeping in Holmes' bed when he was thoroughly intoxicated, yet Holmes didn't mind. While he gave Holmes his professional attention on many occasion, the care with which he attended to Holmes – especially when a rib was cracked or Holmes' nose was broken, was more than merely professional. At times, the army veteran's touch was more than professional, more than friendly, more than... Holmes' eyes snapped open and he shifted in the tub. Sherlock had always been interested in chemistry, and in the human body, and how the human mind worked to solve man's most complex problems, yet he had always avoided consciously exploring his own emotions and sensations. Mais oui, he relieved himself when his bladder was full, and he drank when he was thirsty, but thoughts and feelings unrelated to prolonging his life on this earth were generally considered beneath him. However, with the water entering his pores and thoughts of John on his mind, Sherlock allowed himself to succumb to what most would consider a primal instinct beyond that of mere survival and nourishment. Holmes thought of Watson's eyes, how they twinkled when Holmes slyly berated Lestrade for his outright ignorance in solving cases. He thought of Watson's mustache, which seemed to twitch whenever Watson took it upon himself to tease Sherlock. He thought of Watson's hands, which stitched him up more than once with more care than a mother would give her bruised child.

Holmes inhaled deeply, again closing his eyes. He remembered Watson's wounded shoulder, and how the shrapnel had never completely been removed. How it pained him, and how his leg often added insult to injury after a night of tracking a case, or before a hard rain. Despite having been a veteran since before he met Holmes, Watson's frame and figure had always remained lithe and muscular, despite no regimented exercise routine. His chest was well-defined, his stomach flat, his waist... muscular. Unable to envision anything lower than the sloping line of Watson's hips, (tanned from the doctour's frequent, private sunbathing), that lead Holmes' eyes to follow the line of the cotton drawers with their bone button keeping the garment upon the older man's waist, Holmes felt his mouth watering and his mind start to go foggy. His eyes closed languidly, as if of their own volition. He felt as though he were disconnected from his physical being, and unable to deny his baser urges any longer, allowed one strong hand to dip below the water...

Perhaps a physical release was what was needed, perhaps it was not seeking out the cocaine bottle for a few hours, but whatever the cause, Holmes rose from his bath feeling somewhat renewed, as if somehow he might manage in his new life after all. While he had maintained that his life was at its peak a few years back, he felt that so long as there were those treated unjustly by extenuating circumstances in London, he was able to be of use. Quite frankly, Holmes believed that Lestrade would have been sacked years ago had it not been all the unpublished help the consulting detective had given Scotland Yard for so long. After throwing some salvageable scraps of meat to Gladstone, Holmes picked up his bow and rosin and prepared to play. He would not allow his instrument to play a gay tune, but he was not of the disposition to play a dirge either – however, regardless of what song his fingers chose, he refused to allow himself to play Watson's tune. Instead, knowing that there was a particular slow waltz that the bulldog seemed to enjoy, Holmes played that.

He played for hours, until even his calloused fingers grew weary. It was well after midnight when Holmes had sated his musical inclination. He let his instrument and bow slip from his fingers onto the floor before stretching. "Perhaps I should go to bed, eh Gladstone?" Yawning, Holmes stretched his arms and arched his back. Sleep was definitely setting into his bones. As for his mind, Holmes was hopeful that his thoughts would slow down after he had rubbed some liniment into his weary muscles, blew out his taper, and closed his eyes. Concerned that he would be unsuccessful at finding sleep, Holmes took a pinch of tobacco out of his slipper and lit his pipe, sucking on it until large, doleful puffs of smoke spiraled into the air above his head. After finishing his shag, he tapped out the ashes into the closest ashtray he could lay his hands on, and rose from his chair. "Come Gladstone, let us fall into the arms of Morpheus." The dog snorted, and then got up and scratched at his rear quarters. "Perhaps we could both use a bit of the milk conditioning cream I have instead of that veterinary liniment, eh? Come, and we shall find something for that dry patch of skin you have." Holmes began to shuffle over to his bedroom when he slowed near the door to his suit of rooms. His ears seemed to discern a creaking of the wooden steps leading to his rooms. At this time of night, however, even Mrs. Hudson had long since retired. The detective cocked his head in an effort to better concentrate on whatever sound he had just perceived. Perhaps it was a fellow Londoner in need? No. Too quiet. Perhaps it was one of the lower echelon in Moriarty's crime network who had managed to escape capture coming to end his life? No. Holmes had personally overseen that particular project. Looking at Gladstone to gauge whether the dog was concerned about who was approaching their abode, Holmes quickly strode to the door. It all happened so quickly, yet his subconscious was alert, as if someone had been gently gliding the end of a pin across his flesh. On the other side of the door stood Doctor John Watson. He had taken off his remaining pair of gloves – the pair that Sherlock had given him, and he had taken a deep, nervous breath before lifting his left hand in preparation to knock on the door. His fist had started to move toward the door to rap on it when Holmes swung it open, taking Watson by surprise.

The doctor looked at Holmes with wide eyes, while Holmes regarded the man on the other side of the door frame with a steadiness familiar with one who is used to unexpected guests. "Sherlock," Waton blurted, "Sherlock, listen please. Just listen. You were right. You were right and I shouldn't have –"

Watson was unable to finish his hurried apology and explanation as he found himself being pulled by the lapel into the door frame, his lips shoved against Sherlock's as if they were never meant to part. He had made his way back to 221 Baker Street, back to his home, their home, not sure what would happen, not sure what he would say, not sure of anything other than his desire and his need to get back home. Finding himself pulled against Sherlock, Watson surprised himself yet again when he naturally responded to the other man's lips against his. It just felt right. He let his doctor's bag drop on the floor right outside the door. Holmes made a small noise, (Watson was unsure if it was a grunt or a moan, or that it even mattered what it was all), and then he eased up slightly to look into Watson's face and observe his reaction. Wary of what the other man's reaction would be, Holmes was surprised when Watson leaned in towards him voluntarily. Unable to contain his urges, Holmes attacked the other man, pushing him against the door frame in a frenzied embrace. Watson, in a moment of clarity, reached around the shorter man and ripped the plain gold band off his left ring finger, tossing it errantly into a bowl which sat on an old accent table near the door. The men sometimes put their keys in it, and Holmes had a tendency to store orphan buttons there in hopes that Mrs. Hudson would fix his waistcoats.

Watson ran his hands through the other man's hair, separating his lips from Holmes' long enough to whisper into the detective's ear. "Holmes." The detective answered by letting his hands strip the doctour first of his overcoat and next of his suit jacket, before ripping the buttons off the other man's vest. ("More buttons for Nanny," Holmes thought, smirking.) Holmes started to walk backwards, pulling Watson with him. Watson used his bad leg to clumsily kick the door closed behind them. The door fell almost an inch short of the frame, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing mattered to either of them. Surprising himself, Holmes couldn't contain his hands from shaking excitedly as he undid Watson's shirt to reveal the tanned chest underneath. His mouth instinctively went to the taller man's collar bone. It tasted musky, but sweet. Holmes closed his eyes as he flared his nostrils to drink in the scent of the other man so close to him- it was intoxicating. It was dizzying.

Watson, unsure of how Holmes would react to his homecoming, had been cautious in the beginning, but upon feeling the strength and urgency in which Holmes' lips met his, he felt a renewed vigor towards the raven-haired man. He ran his hand through Holmes' freshly cleaned hair as he started towards the nearest bedroom. He had spent many a night in Holmes' room before, but never one such as he was anticipating now. Holmes was pulling him closer, deeper into his private room, as if Watson weighed nothing at all. As Sherlock pulled him into his bedroom, Watson had his mind about him enough to let his foot kick at the door behind them in an effort to keep the bulldog out of the room. (Two's company, three is a crowd!) The door had started to fit into the jam, but it did not close completely. Regardless, while the dog was happy to see his original (and more kindly) owner, he reasoned that an unattended slipper lay near the settee and that it smelled just right for a bit of a chew, and that was much more enticing than any of the weird noises that his owners were making in the other room.

Holmes' room was a windowless one, although a lit candle seemed to provide plenty of warm glow for the men to see what their fingers were doing. Despite engaging in an entirely new activity between the two of them, the men knew one another's bodies well. (In fact, while he would never admit to it, Holmes was sometimes a bit envious of the advanced medical training Watson had – while Holmes could be considered rather book-smart in medical affairs, he hadn't a fraction of the practical training and experience that Watson's resume boasted.) "Holmes, I – I've never done this before," Watson whispered hurriedly. He needn't say it, but he was worried about the practicality of what was about to happen – after all, there was a reason that sodomy was considered unnatural, and part of it was due to the physical difficulties it could present.

Holmes, having laid on the bed, smiled, thinking of the milk-based cream he had intended to use on Gladstone earlier in the night. "I have just the thing," he purred, leaning onto his side table to grab a liberal handful of the lotion. "Ici," Holmes purred, rubbing the cream into Watson's hand to transfer it to him. In his last moments laying on his back, Holmes reached up and massaged the residue of the cream into the doctor's chest, slowly working it into the other man's breast while Watson started preparing himself.

The men did not speak for the rest of their night aside from a few errant gasps and Holmes' sudden recognition of God. ("It is the only time I have ever considered that Christian deity my own," he would acknowledge in later years, when being chided by Watson.)

Mrs. Hudson arrived in the morning, surprised to see the doctor's bag sitting outside the apartment door, which was agape from the night before. Gladstone greeted her as she walked into the upstairs apartment to set down a tray of food. Holmes was next to recognize her presence. "Ah, Nanny, how lovely to see you!" He greeted her dressed in a smoking robe and squeezing through his bedroom door as if to keep the air within it undisturbed.

"Good morning, Sherlock. It's good to see you in better spirits."

"Yes, indeed. And our John is back, too!"

"Dr. Watson?" the woman asked, surprised despite seeing the doctour bag.

"The one and only," Sherlock smiled. "But let's not wake him, he didn't get in until late, and then he didn't get to sleep until even later!"

"Mr. Holmes, are you... drunk?" She paused. "I'm sorry. Forgive me for saying, but your... gait is a bit... odd." Mrs. Hudson asked cautiously. Holmes couldn't help but smile lopsidedly. Mais oui! Of course, it was!

"No, I'm not drunk, I'm not drugged, there is nothing wrong with my gait. I'm just very, very happy. There is an order to the world, Nanny, and Gladstone just hadn't been the same without him."

Mrs. Hudson turned back from setting the table to look at Holmes. "Yes, although he's not the only one." She looked at Holmes and smiled. She wondered when Mrs. Watson would be arriving, but knew that Holmes wasn't too keen on her, so she decided to hold her tongue.

"Will... he be staying in his old room? I didn't see him on the lounger."

"As he arrived last night he fell into bed without a thought otherwise," Sherlock responded, omitting into whose bed Watson had fallen.

Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows betrayed her. "Well then, I suppose I will see him shortly. I'll be back up in a bit with an extra set of dishes for him. Enjoy your breakfast, Sherlock, and if you need more of anything, I can always cook up seconds."

"Thank you, Nanny. And now, I hope you leave before I make a fool of myself, plunging my unsightly, unkempt head into this pile of your delicious potatoes."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head before heading to the door, being escorted by her tenant. "Very well then, Sherlock. And do look after Dr. Watson, what with his unexpected return."

"I intend to do just that!" Holmes remarked, opening the door for the older woman while smiling. He intended to spend days dedicated solely to Watson's every want and need... along with the occasional feeding of Gladstone, mais oui.