"No, no, no, Watson. Don't you see how the shadows darken the closer you get toward the foot of the cliffs?"
"You know, I'm beginning to regret this."
"Oh, come on."
"I'm serious."
"Here, let me see."
I relinquished the pencil as Holmes leaned over my shoulder to show what I was doing wrong, my annoyed tone belying the actual enjoyment I was getting out of our impromptu drawing lesson.
"See? Longer, bolder strokes here, and lighter ones toward the top. There."
I glared at the page where he had fixed my mistakes to make a semi-recognisable sketch as he handed the pencil back to me and sat back against the rock, removing the thick scarf from his neck; it was warming up after the morning's rain and now, late afternoon, was quite sunny and almost balmy.
"I'm hopeless," I said in dismay, shutting the book and handing it over to him.
He chuckled lightly, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
"You can hardly expect to become an artist in one day, Watson. How many stories did you write before you finally got one published?"
"Too many," I said ruefully, shifting positions as my leg ached, having got cramped from sitting in one position for so long.
"There, you see?"
"See nothing, I only got published because the public is fascinated with your character."
"I have told you on a previous occasion, I do not agree with modesty being a virtue, Watson," he replied indignantly, shaking the pencil at me, "you entirely under-rate your abilities with the pen."
"If you think so, why do you manage to work the phrase 'ridiculous romanticism' into every conversation about my stories?" I asked in a combination of amusement and warmth at hearing his rare, albeit indirect, praise.
"Because I do rank accuracy and truth among the virtues," he replied with a grin.
I snorted and watched as he opened the book once more to a blank page, idly doodling along the margins, his eyes on our peaceful surroundings. I followed his amused gaze and saw two seagulls fighting over something on the beach - apparently a fish or shell of some sort, squawking angrily at each other and whistling loud enough to draw a crowd of onlooking birds.
I heard him laugh softly and turned to look at him.
"Holmes?"
"I rather imagine the two of us looked rather like that this morning," he snickered, glancing at me mischievously.
I winced at the jab, and his smile widened. He turned back to the journal, taking up the pencil and beginning a swift sketch. I scooted closer to watch over his shoulder as he rapidly and apparently effortlessly detailed the amusing scene, first outlining and then filling in the small details.
I gave a dismayed squawk that sounded rather like those confounded gulls' screeches when I watched him in a fit of wicked mischief put our initials under the birds in the simple sketch and write the date with a flourish, presenting the thing to me with a half-bow and breaking into a rather undignified laugh at my red face.
"You're never going to let me forget that one, are you?"
"No, I am not," he returned with a grin, standing to his feet and stretching, "you may keep that as a reminder to leave the deducing to me, Watson."
"Touché," I muttered ruefully, shoving the book in my pocket after glancing once more at the absurd drawing.
We started back along the pathway, and I noticed my leg was rather getting worse – the storm must be sure to be coming back. One look at the sky corroborated my thoughts as a cloud obscured the sun and the blue started to take on a grey tinge as we made our rapid way up the steep cliff-side.
Just then I slipped on the still-damp path and fell to one knee (my bad one, confound it), sending a shower of sandy soil slithering down the path below me. My soft grunt of pain had been heard by Holmes, however, for he came back and offered me a hand.
"You are hardly strong enough to get yourself back up that path, much less me," I growled, slipping as I tried to regain my footing and finally grabbing his wrist to steady myself.
"I am improving rather well, Doctor," he declared loftily, "you, on the other hand…"
"I'll be the judge of that," I retorted, finally regaining my feet and glaring at him, "and if you so much as mutter 'Physician, heal thyself', I shall make you fix supper tonight and wash the dishes!"
He laughed and put a firm hand under my elbow as we continued to climb.
"Are you really certain you want me puttering about the kitchen?"
"On second thought, no, I've seen you try to fix dinner before," I said ruefully.
"When was that?"
"In the early days, when Mrs. Hudson came so close to throwing us out after you nearly burned the whole flat down experimenting with that kerosene and sulphuric acid."
He winced at the remembrance.
"Those were indeed the early days. Such an experiment now would net me no more than an explosive screech and perhaps doubled rent for the month, not an eviction threat and no meals until the damage was repaired like it was back then."
I smiled at the memory, remembering how very odd Holmes had seemed to me at that point in time.
"What is so amusing, Watson?"
"You really were the oddest chap in those days, you know."
"I doubt that anything has changed in fifteen years except your tolerance level," he replied dryly as we neared the cottage.
Holmes opened the cottage door, pushing me inside just as a distant rumbling shook the air.
"Storm's coming back," I remarked, glancing out at the gathering clouds and flinging my coat over a chair.
"Now that actually is a sound deduction, Watson."
I glared at him, and his face assumed that innocent what-did-I-say-now look he was so fond of giving me when I grew more exasperated than was normal with him. I shook my head and moved slowly over to coax some life into the fire, stirring up the coals and blowing on them.
"Like a drink, Watson?" Holmes bellowed loudly from the kitchen. Honestly, the man could not just step to the door and call?
"Not until after supper, thank you," I shouted back.
Holmes poked his head out of the kitchen momentarily.
"Shall I –"
"No," I stated emphatically, hastily arising from my kneeling position on the floor, "I want none of your infamous cooking. Is that why you aren't in the habit of eating regular meals? When you lived in Montague Street, you couldn't stand to eat your own cooking?"
"I resent that inference!"
"But you don't deny it!" I crowed in triumph, shooting him a victorious smirk as I brushed past him into the kitchen.
He growled something that sounded suspiciously like 'insufferable quack', which I ignored; verbal sparring matches with Sherlock Holmes never ended in my favour.
I had no doubt that the powder he had taken had worn off and he had to be feeling rather poorly despite his apparent good humour. But I knew that he would be offended if I offered him another, and actually it would be better for his body if he refrained from all such remedies, letting his mind and body grow accustomed to the pain instead of taking temporary refuge from it.
The storm that was now hitting the cottage as I prepared a hasty meal was not going to help his health or his mood any, and I fervently hoped it would be gone by morning. He needed fresh air as much as rest, and the afternoon had done much to improve his condition; I definitely would try to repeat the occurrence in the future.
We spent a rather quiet dinner, occasionally chatting over some completely random topic as my companion was so fond of doing, and afterwards sat by the fire, I reading a novel I had found on the case in my bedroom and he snipping news clippings out and pasting them into his common-place book, getting paste everywhere in the process.
When I ventured a small remark about possibly putting a sheet down to protect the carpet, he fixed me with such a black look that I hastily went back to my story. His mood was already swinging to a dark irritability – not a good sign.
I kept a wary eye on him for the next two hours, but he appeared to be venting his frustration rather well on the work before him and seemed to be managing his pain as best he could. I saw him start to shiver at one point and offered him an afghan, which he brusquely refused.
But after I emerged from my bedroom a moment later after returning the half-read book to the shelf, he had gotten over his pride and was sitting with it wrapped round him. I watched in amusement as he tried to prize off a cutting that had stuck to the fabric because of the paste, growling all the while as if the paper could actually hear him.
"Do you need anything, Holmes?"
He glanced up, mid-rant, and shook his head.
"Then I believe I shall turn in. Call me if you want me," I continued, stifling a wide yawn.
He barely acknowledged my words, peeling off the damp paper and scowling blackly at it. I hid a smile as I turned back to my bedroom and prepared for sleep.
The next day we spent indoors as the storm blew itself out gradually. Holmes was characteristically out-of-sorts and I was characteristically silent, letting him vent in whatever way he chose; heaven knew I was used to such things by now.
Around afternoon the storm finally ceased, the grey clouds rolling away to reveal an equally grey wet moor with its reminders of forgotten civilisations, those stone monuments dotted along the plains.
Holmes had been napping for several hours, for which I was grateful as he needed all the rest he could get, but as the sun shone a watery beam of light into the window he arose, pocketed his magnifying lens and the journal I had given him, and started into his overcoat. I made to rise, but he waved me back into my seat.
"If you think me strong enough, Doctor, I should like some time alone for introspection," he said quietly.
I felt a slight twinge of hurt that he did not want my presence but quashed it instantly, hoping that his reasons for going out alone were what I had been wishing for.
"If I don't think you strong enough, you're going to go anyway," I returned with a small smile, "go on. Be back before dark, mind."
As I had expected, the rather juvenile admonition brought a smirk to his face, and he wrapped his muffler closely round his neck and set off after a reassuring glance back at me. I walked to the window and saw him start across the moor in the direction of several stone monoliths, obviously intent upon pursuing that elusive air of mystery that surrounded this place.
I could only hope and pray that this would be the start of some serious soul-searching on his part; leading to, I hoped, freedom from that devilish substance that lingered round him to threaten his remarkable brain.
To be continued...reviews are welcomed as always!
