I am quite relieved when I discover that Watson and I do not have to make a pizza from scratch. We are both weary by the time our little shopping party returns to Baker Street and we are all starving. The pizza is freshly made and was purchased from the counter that sells the fresh breads and cold meats, apparently. It only needs heating in the oven.

While I unwrap the pizza and pre-warm the oven Watson empties a bag of frozen chips onto a baking tray.

"I am rather too hungry to want to waste time peeling potatoes tonight," my companion confesses.

I am in agreement with him. The smell of the freshly baked bread in that shop has made me quite ravenous. "The pizza should only take twenty minutes. How long do those chips need?"

"The same. I shall tend to that if you would go on preparing the salad."

I take the salad to the sink and rinse each item carefully while my friend inserts the pizza and chips into the rapidly warming oven. This done, I chop the tomatoes and cucumber and arrange the slices with a few lettuce leaves on each of the five plates. As I still have time, I also slice an apple and peel an orange to add to the salad, helping myself to a spare piece of each. I can hear Watson sorting through bags as he puts away the last of the shopping behind me. Ha ha! We are like a well-oiled machine! Even after so many years of being apart we still work together beautifully.

"What is in this bag Holmes? It looks like clothing of some sort."

I gesture for him to set it down without turning my head. "That is a little surprise for the Irregulars; it can wait until after dinner."

Hardly a word is spoken over dinner, for we are all much too hungry. It is not until Watson and I are clearing the table before we fetch up the tea things and the dessert of strawberries and cream (which only ever was available in the height of the summer in my day) that we feel like talking again.

"That pizza was rather good," I remark as I hold the door open for my companion.

Watson agrees. "It was hand-made by the people on the fresh food counter," he informs me. "We selected the toppings ourselves. I was not sure that we would be able to find a pre-made frozen one that we could all agree on."

"You did well."

"Thank you Holmes," my friend deposits the empty plates in the kitchen sink after scraping any leftovers into the recycle bin in the corner of the room while I rinse and slice the strawberries. "I am too tired to bother with washing up. Could we leave it until the morning?"

"Well, just fill the sink with hot water then," I advise him without turning from my task. "We shall leave the dishes in soak overnight." I give a small, knowing smile. If my usually neat and conscientious Watson is too weary to bother with a few dishes, he is done up indeed.

With a quiet yawn, my companion transfers the water from the kettle into the teapot while I finish preparing the strawberries and pour the carton of double cream into a small jug.

"Ready Holmes?" he asks as he arranges the tea things on a serving tray.

"I believe so. Do we have another tray?"

He shakes his head. "No. We shall have to come back for the remaining three dishes and the cream."

I shrug and take a dish in each hand as my companion lifts the tray. I get the kitchen door with my elbow and hold it open for him with my foot.

"Thank you," he acknowledges as he passes me and takes to the staircase with me just behind him.

The strawberries are wonderful! Juicy, delicious and they cut through the grease from the chips beautifully. They take me back to warm summer days of garden parties and cream teas.

"Mm, this is delightful," Watson remarks cheerfully. "Puts me in mind of the Crystal Palace cream teas that we were invited to attend on occasion. Remember Holmes?"

I smile blissfully as I lean back in my chair. "And afterwards..."

"A concert by one of the finest virtuosos in England," he finishes with a bright smile.

"How could I ever forget?" I ask.

The Irregulars are confused.

"Crystal Palace FC used to give cream teas?" Deirdre asks.

I bark with laughter. "The Crystal Palace was a palace made of glass that stood in Hyde Park," I explain. "You would probably describe it as an oversize greenhouse, but it was a grand thing; a monument of Victorian engineering and design. I might be able to find a picture of it on the Internet."

"Finish your meal first," Watson chastises me as I spring to my feet. "Really Holmes! You do need to set our Irregulars a better example."

I quirk an eyebrow at him as the Irregulars chuckle quietly but resume my seat without complaint.

Watson wipes his mouth and pushes aside his empty dish. "Well, I have finished so I think I shall see whether or not I have learnt how to use the Internet."

"You first open the search engine," I remind him.

"Let him do it by himself," Deirdre advises me. "He won't learn if you keep telling him what to do. It's like deduction - he needs to work it out on his own."

She is probably right. I finish my dessert in silence and then gather up the dishes to take them down to the kitchen and place them in the sink with the dinner plates. We are going to have a lot to wash up in the morning. If only Mrs. Hudson was here! I shrug my shoulders, pick up the carrier bag from off the floor and turn off the light before hurrying back upstairs once more.

When I return to the sitting room, I find that Watson has found an encyclopedia entry about Crystal Palace, including its exclusive Underground railway station and dinosaur exhibition (which apparently still survives today). The Irregulars are eager to hear of our own memories of the Crystal Palace and gaze at the drawings and photographs on the computer screen in wonder.

"What happened to it?" Wiggins asks us.

"It was destroyed in a fire," Watson replies. "The public had already lost interest in it and so it was not restored."

"That's a shame," Tennyson says.

Deirdre nods. "Yeah. It is sad; I would've liked to see it."

"Can we go and see where it was?" Wiggins asks. "You did say the dinosaurs were still there Doctor Watson. I'd like to see those!"

"And the Subway station," Deirdre adds. "I'll bet that one was really beautiful."

I nod. "Now that you come to mention it, it was. But it was closed down when the public lost interest in the Crystal Palace, so it must be in a terrible state of disrepair. I doubt that it would be safe for the public to visit." I shake myself and leap to my feet. "Leave the computer for a moment. I have some gifts for you."

"You didn't have to get us anything," Wiggins protests.

I shrug with my hands. "Well, if you say so. However, you might want to decide on whether or not you need the things that I have bought after I give them to you."

I hand each of my Irregulars a new coat first of all. They are long, thick, waterproof, windproof and come with a detachable hood. Most importantly (at least as far as they are concerned), they are highly fashionable.

"I'm not sure about the colour Mr. Holmes," Deirdre confesses as she slips hers on. "I don't really wear black."

"Well, black can be worn with almost any colour," I respond with a smile. "It also has a way of blending into a crowd. I tend to wear a lot of black. You only need to pin a brooch or flower to the lapel in order to brighten it up, if you wish it."

"Do you wear buttonholes?" Wiggins asks with curiosity.

"On occasion, yes. Saint George's Day, for example."

He smiles. "I didn't know that."

I am not surprised. "Flowers are not always very easy to come by these days. This house used to be full of vases and houseplants when Watson and I were lodging here in our own era. Now, if you prefer colour Deirdre, perhaps you might want these to brighten your outfit somewhat." I hand her a matching hat and muffler set in knitted wine wool first of all, followed by leather gloves that tie in with the colour of the knitwear. "I hope that red is all right. I know that you are not fond of pink."

"Red's great! Thanks Mr. Holmes!" she tries the items on and then admires herself in the mirror on the wall above the mantel. "Yeah! You're right; the red looks really good with the black."

"Bright colours usually do," I respond with a small smile. "Now, who is next? Wiggins. I know that you are rather fond of your Brixton football scarf, so I have not purchased a replacement; I simply found you a good, thick hat and pair of gloves to match its colour."

"Great! Thanks Mr. Holmes. I don't know what to say."

I shrug and smile. "I am glad that you like them. You all spend rather a lot of time out in the streets of New London and I hardly want you contracting pneumonia. If it is already as cold out as this in October, I fear that we are in for a hard winter. Probably the bitterest in living memory."

Watson raises his eyebrows. "Is this weather unusual then? I did not think that it was unseasonably cold."

"The climate has warmed somewhat since our day," I respond. "If you were hoping for a Victorian white Christmas you are likely to be disappointed."

"Oh," he does indeed sound disappointed.

I reach into the bottom of the bag and pull out Tennyson's hat, gloves and muffler.

The lad eagerly takes the items from me and tries them on with a smile. He likes the shade of blue that I chose, he informs me.

"I think that you should remove your outdoor clothing and hang it up for now," Watson suggests. "Or else you shan't feel the benefit when you leave the house."

I agree and take their new garments through to my bedroom, where I set everything down at the foot of my bed.

The history lesson continues the moment that I return to the sitting room. The Irregulars wish to hear about our era now that they have caught a glimpse of our world.

Watson tells them about Victorian medicine; much of which positively shocks them. Deirdre looks quite sickened when he talks of amputation and they are all horrified to learn that drugs such as opium and cocaine were used to treat illness.

"The dangers of such drugs were not known until the twentieth century," I explain to them. "And you must remember as well that we still had much to learn about both medicine and illness itself. Contagion was not fully understood and so diseases spread with alarming speed; even after pioneering doctors began to realise the cause had nothing to do with the then accepted miasma theory. It took many tragedies before things such as the spread of cholera was understood and acted upon."

Watson nods. "You shall probably find this hard to understand, but I find things such as antibiotics miraculous. When I was in practice, infection was a thing to be watched for in a patient with dread, for there was little that could be done."

I touch my friend's shoulder gently, knowing that he felt the loss of every patient that he was powerless to save keenly.

He gazes at me with gratitude for a moment before turning back to our Irregulars. "It would seem that I have much to learn."

"John can help you," I remind my companion with a quick smile as I pat his shoulder. "He revised his knowledge last year, when the Irregulars had to tell him how best to treat a cold."

"He told us to get... what was it? Laudanum, morphine and something else," Wiggins shakes his head. "I looked laudanum up when I got home. I couldn't believe it when I found out it's an opium!"

"Opiate," I correct him. "As Watson has already said, it was the only thing that could be used at the time. Addiction was not widely understood and so such a thing was not considered to be any more dangerous than paracetamol, for instance."

"Paracetamol is dangerous, if you overdose. It kills you very slowly and painfully," Deirdre informs me. "We were told that at school."

I shrug. Perhaps modern medicines are not so very much better than those that they have replaced then.

"What did you do for fun?" Tennyson asks.

Oh good! A change of subject. "Ah, entertainment... Well, we had no television or computer games. Indeed, electricity was only used to power lights at first and even then, most houses were still lit by gas and candles. This house was one of them."

"So what did you do for fun?" Wiggins asks, repeating Tennyson's question.

I take to my armchair beside the fire and curl myself down into it. "Watson used to read adventure stories, I seem to recall. I would play my violin as a rule. We both liked music (and the arts in general) and would attend concerts or visit the art gallery or theatre. We would also take a leisurely stroll on occasion; usually in Regents Park."

"Imagine having no telly or computer games," Tennyson remarks. "I think I'd go mad!"

I shrug. "You cannot miss what you have not experienced."

"Very true," Watson agrees. "I seldom had time to be bored when I was with Holmes anyway. If he did not have a case, he would be working on something or other. An experiment, a monograph; he was rarely idle and so I was kept occupied in turn."

Unless I was in a state of morose depression, which did happen rather more frequently than Watson would have anyone believe. Thank Heaven I had such a selfless, patient friend! His support was of more value than I could ever express.

"What was Victorian London like?" Deirdre asks as she and Wiggins take to the settee while Watson sits in his armchair, opposite mine, and stretches his feet before the fire. Tennyson positions his hoverchair at my sleepy companion's side.

I rub at my temple and gaze at her thoughtfully. "How would you describe this era to someone from two centuries into your future? It was very different. The law was different, as was the police force. Criminals could be put to death if their deeds warranted it; not made to behave as model citizens with the aid of hypnotism."

"What?" my companion jerks out of his doze to stare at me. "Did I hear that correctly?"

I motion to him to be quiet. I shall explain the 'Crypnosis' procedure to him later.

"What was so different about the law?" Wiggins asks with curiosity.

I close my eyes for a moment and rest my head against the back of my chair. "Attitudes were very different, for one thing. Wives and children had little or no rights of their own and were classed as the property of the man of the house."

"What?" Deirdre shouts, causing me to open my eyes again, and she and Wiggins stare back at me in disbelief. "What about single women?"

I shake my head. "Single women had less rights and security still Deirdre. There were few jobs for women. As they could not work, so they had no money; there was no jobseekers' allowance or any other form of benefits for those who could not find employment in those days. There was also no housing provided - those that could not pay their way either found themselves in workhouses, prison or out in the street."

Tennyson gives a shiver. I expect he is wondering how they would have fared in my era. I would rather not think about that. At least they are not homeless, like the Irregulars of my own era, but I do not wish to consider the position Tennyson's disability would have put him in. It does not bear thinking about.

"Did you ever have someone hanged?" Wiggins asks suddenly.

I groan. Why do young people have such a morbid curiosity? "In a manner of speaking, yes; I have caught murderers that came to be hanged. It was not a thing that I would want you to witness Wiggins."

"Did you watch?"

"No. I did not," I reply rather sharply. "It is not a pleasant thing to witness. My role in life has been to see justice done; that does not mean that I should get any pleasure in seeing a dangerous criminal hanged."

I blame the media and the things that they watch. The young people of today catch a glimpse of a hanging during a film and think that it was quick and clean. It was in fact a messy, unpleasant business and I have heard of men with strong constitutions fainting away or vomiting during a hanging. Some things are not for the faint-hearted; others are only for the very morbid.

"Are you OK Mr. Holmes?" Deirdre asks quietly.

I nod and smile at her. I am not going to admit that Wiggins' sudden interest in death sentences has unnerved me, however slightly. "I am feeling sleepy. I often do after meals." This is why I often put off eating while I work a difficult case.

"If you were to eat regularly, your body would become accustomed to digesting and you would not feel a drain on your energy," Watson informs me.

I stifle a yawn and close my eyes. "John has already said that."

"I am surprised that you remember," he responds with a frown in his voice.

I crack an eye open and smile at him. I do not wish to quarrel with my Boswell.

"We should go," Wiggins decides. "It's getting late."

I attempt to shake off the clutching tendrels of sleep as I leave my chair. "I shall get your warm clothing. Just a moment."

I hear my companion offer them one last warming drink, which is politely declined, as I enter my bedroom. Good old Watson; he is always so very thoughtful.

"You are all right, are you Holmes?" Watson asks me with concern when we are alone.

I nod and address him with a reassuring smile.

"You did look rather pale earlier, even for you," he informs me.

"Oh Watson," I lean back in my chair and stretch my socked feet before the fire, having removed my shoes. "I am quite all right."

He frowns at me for a moment and then nods. "Very well then, I shall not force you to confide in me. I do wish that you would do so without my having to persuade you, however."

I did agree that we should keep nothing from one another. Perhaps it is high time that I learn to trust my companion as much as he trusts me.

"Wiggins' interest in hangings caused me to feel a little uncomfortable," I admit carefully after a long silence.

"You did seem rather unsettled," he replies. "As you did while we were at the zoo yesterday. I have seen you like it before, during cases together, but you had always had me believe that I was making too much of trifles. Will you please be good enough to tell me what is wrong?"

I rub a hand over my forehead and across my eyes. He would laugh! He would at the very least think me ridiculous. In my profession, I should be used to violence and death. "I am merely tired," I assure him.

He snorts. "You were not tired when we were at the zoo; we had not been there for very long and you seemed better once you had had some hot chocolate. You were happy to walk to the museum as well. No, I do not believe that you were weary."

"The reptile house was too stuffy."

He shakes his head. "I do not buy that either. You have not been affected by humid or hot conditions before; not even when you used to smoke heavily. Come now Holmes, we agreed that there would be no secrets between us."

I draw a deep breath and release it slowly. "Snakes. I dislike them. Their presence makes me uncomfortable."

He gasps and comes to my side to rest a hand upon my shoulder. "Of course! You practically told me as much when you described Milverton the blackmailer to me. Indeed, any dangerous man that repulsed you tended to be compared with reptiles and particularly snakes by you; it should have been obvious!"

I give him a fleeting, bitter smile. "You do not expect me to be unsettled by a snake behind glass; to fear death by snake bite is natural, rational, but to fear the creature itself is not."

He again shakes his head and pats my shoulder. "Every man has something that he fears," he says quietly. "You said as much yourself when I was so terribly frightened in the car."

I am not sure how to respond. I feel that his sympathy degrades me. I shrug my shoulders and gaze into the fire.

"You do not usually react so badly to the presence of snakes," my companion notes. "The case involving the Speckled Band did not seem to affect you."

Again I shrug. I shan't tell him how my hands shook as I prepared myself for my encounter with the creature or how sick I felt when I was faced with the thing. "I could not afford to hesitate or otherwise allow myself to lose an ounce of my usual level of self-control," I respond at last. "That creature was deadly Watson."

It was deadly and my companion was present in the room. Had I been too slow, even though I ensured that he was as far from the ventilator through which the serpent came as was possible, he could have paid the ultimate price. That knowledge was enough to keep my wits sharp.

"What happened yesterday then?" my friend asks.

"You did not see the group of children, along with their teacher, handling the boa constrictor in the reptile house?"

He shakes his head. "I was not paying attention to the groups from the schools. I was rather too busy enjoying myself."

I close my eyes tightly, which of course only causes the memory to become all the more vivid. "They were... petting it... first of all. That was quite bad enough. Then the handler suggested that someone hold it..." I give a violent shudder and swallow forcefully. "I could not... I had to get out of there."

He pats my shoulder. "Had I known how you felt about such creatures, I would never have suggested that we visit the reptile house. I am sorry. I thought nothing of it; we have visited such places before and you said nothing."

What does he expect? That I would run out of there screaming? If he can control himself while he is trapped within a flying car, I can maintain my composure while I am faced with a reptile or two behind glass!

Watson's hand gently squeezes my shoulder. "At least I know now."

"Hum."

He sighs and straightens his back as he relinquishes his grip upon my shoulder. "What is the matter?"

I shake my head and gaze into the fire. "This is a new experience. I have never..." Stop! That is a lie in itself. I have lied to my Boswell but only when I believed that the truth would cause him harm; such as I did yesterday, when he asked me how far above the ground we were while we were heading for Lestrade's apartment. "I disapprove of lying, but I have never been so very honest and open before. With anyone. I always intended... I knew that I could trust you... but I could not completely let down my guard. Even with you."

His hand returns to squeezing my shoulder but he says nothing. After some moments he pats my shoulder once more before crossing the room to the decanters. "Would you like a brandy or whisky?"

"Brandy. Please," I respond without turning from my scrutiny of the fire.

"Do you feel better for talking to me?" he asks as he pours our drinks.

"I think so," I mumble. "Thank you Watson."

He smiles at me as I accept the offered glass from his outstretched hand. Without another word he resumes his seat, emitting a grateful sigh as he removes his shoes and warms his feet.

"Are you cold?"

"No. Are you?" he asks as his eyes sweep over me with concern.

I shake my head and swallow half of my brandy in a long sip. "The fire has quite banished my chills thank you. But I do seem to recall that you felt the cold quite keenly."

He shrugs as he swallows a sip of his own drink. "I became accustomed to long marches in hot climates Holmes. Any man would feel the cold keenly upon returning home."

"Hum, yes. I suppose you are right."

"Being unable to remain as active as I had been rather exacerbated the matter," he continues. "As did the way that my old wounds would cause me to ache during inclement weather; my leg in particular often felt as though the bones within it had turned to ice."

I grimace at the thought. "I am glad that you shall no longer suffer so."

"Thank you," he sets aside his now empty glass and closes his eyes.

"May I prescribe an early night Doctor?" I ask with a slight smirk. "You look quite done up; I am sure that tending to me for much of the night did you very little good."

I receive a quiet yawn as a reply.

"Come along old fellow," I encourage him as I drag him from his chair. "Off to bed with you. Tomorrow is another day and we shall want to be bright and alert."

He gazes up at me in confusion. "You have plans?"

I might. It would depend entirely upon how he is tomorrow morning. I see my companion off to bed before tending to myself; this includes gathering up my bedcovers and taking to the settee, as I intended to do last night. As I arrange the sheets and rugs, I find the hot water bottle that Watson gave to me. I wonder whether I should return the favour; is he in the habit of lighting the fire in his hearth before he settles down for the night? I decide to check on my friend of old to ensure that he shall want for nothing. The sound of the wind picking up outside to rattle the windows and whistle in the chimney is making me feel quite chilled and I know that I shall not be able to rest until I know that my Watson is warm, comfortable and sleeping peacefully.

I ascend the stairs noiselessly and creep into my companion's room. He is not asleep.

"What is it Holmes?" he asks wearily.

I sit beside him on his bed. "Can you not sleep?"

He gives a humourless laugh. "I have only just got into bed; preparing for bed seems to take all the longer when I am in a hurry to get into it."

This is true. "Can I get anything for you before I surrender to Morpheus?" I ask of him. "Extra blankets? A hot water bottle?"

He yawns loudly. "I am all right Holmes. Do not trouble yourself."

"Watson, I have spent a lifetime 'not troubling myself'," I retort with a small smile. "I have always been a selfish wretch. I intend to live this life with a different attitude; especially now that I have you back. Now, what can I do for you?"

He is staring at me now as if I have shocked him into complete wakefulness. "I am a little cold," he admits after some hesitation.

I tut to myself and light a fire for him. It is only a small one, so that it shan't become dangerous when the coal spreads and settles as it burns, but it should take the chill off the room.

"Thank you Holmes," he mumbles with a quiet sniff.

I return to his side and touch his hand. "I thought that you said that you were only a little cold," I grumble as I discover that his hands are almost frozen. "I shall find you some rugs and a hot water bottle; I will not have you catching a chill during the first week that we are reunited."

"I never catch anything," he mutters behind me as I step out onto the landing.

I spin in the doorway, enraged by such a ridiculous claim. After a moment or two of trying and failing to find a fitting retort I turn on my heel and storm back downstairs. I have no doubt that those utterly ridiculous words will come back to haunt him later.