July 19, 1881

1:43 p.m.

Methinks I should not have been quite so vocal yesterday afternoon (is there a word for this time of day? Yesternoon, perhaps? I must ask the Doctor; etymology seems to be one of his plethoric areas of expertise) regarding my ennui, for the evening held slightly more excitement than I was wishing for.

And thereby hangs a tale indeed.

This morning, I placed my dead mushrooms in their cardboard grave and left them in the hall, intending to request Mrs. Hudson to set them out for the dustman. For the very logical reason that it slipped my mind, I neglected to carry the action out.

Consequently, the thrifty Scotswoman in our dear landlady apparently rebelled at the flagrant discard of what she believed to be the ordinary breed of fungus. Granted, I have experimented with gardening indoors several times and even the Doctor admitted my American peanut plant of last spring, potted carefully in an old boot, was perfectly cultivated and its products actually edible – but that does not mean that I had grown these particular mushrooms for the purpose of anything other than experimenting with domestic toxins.

With that in mind, I can only retrospectively wish I had labeled the things as poisonous. But I shall come to this presently.

I spent the afternoon dozing and then going through my wardrobe in an effort to locate my white tie (I want to go to the opera some evening soon if I get a well-paying case; Verdi's Simon Boccanegra, I have heard, is superb). Not hungry, as I usually am – or rather not interested enough in the meal to expend the energy to walk out to the table – I naturally shouted back to Watson through the door to have his fortification without my presence.

He grumbled quite endearingly about my poor eating habits but left off pounding on my door in favour of demolishing one of Mrs. Hudson's culinary masterpieces.

And I now thank heaven the aroma of the roast leg of lamb wafting under the door was sufficient for my stomach to raise a painfully vocal protest against my disinterested fasting; for I stretched myself and went out to the table, only just in time to hear Mrs. Hudson beaming about how she had made the sauce with "those perfectly good mushrooms Mr. Holmes was growing here of late."

!!!

I believe the Doctor assumed I had gone suddenly and irreversibly mad when I dashed across the remaining distance of the floor (leaping over the couch and skidding across two stacks of newspapers) and knocked the fork from his hand just before he got a bite of the meal in his mouth.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Holmes! What the –"

"Watson, don't eat that!" I gasped, thoroughly winded from my impromptu acrobatics. "Mrs. Hudson, those were poisonous mushrooms! I put them in the hall and…forgot to warn you," I ended somewhat abashedly, as the woman's outrage suddenly turned into horror.

The poor lady's hand flew to her open mouth with a faint gasp. "Mr. Holmes, I – Doctor – merciful heavens – "

Though his eyes, fixed for the moment in stunned incredulity upon me, were round as the meat-platter, the Doctor rose admirably to the occasion as I was backing away, very much not wanting to deal with a partially-hysterical landlady. Women, especially ones more than capable of throwing me out on my ear into the street, are not my métier.

"There, there, Mrs. Hudson…there is no harm done," the Doctor soothed reassuringly, placing a steadying hand upon the woman's arm as she shuddered. "You could not have known. Really, my dear lady, it is perfectly fine…not your fault in the least. There now, that's better."

I squirmed uncomfortably at the obvious insinuation that I should have told the household not to touch the things.

And, as I suspected, as soon as the door had closed behind our distraught landlady ten minutes later, he lowered the boom in true form. I suddenly wondered if this was what it felt, to be court-martialed (though he would hardly appreciate my inquiry to that effect).

"What the blazes did you think you were doing?" he exclaimed, whirling upon me in a perfectly-executed military about-face. "The poor woman is absolutely terrified! Think how guilty she would feel if we had actually eaten that!"

I found myself torn equally between amusement and intrigue, that he apparently was more concerned with Mrs. Hudson's state of mind than the fact that he could have been dying, Egypt, dying in a few hours, had all gone as it was.

"I did not tell her to use the blasted things!" I grumbled in a (I admit it) childish fit of petulance. In lieu of any edible dinner, I stuffed my pipe with my darkest shag and lit it, scowling defiantly at my fellow-lodger over the bowl. The motion snapped the matchstick nearly in two, and I tossed the ends into the grate with more force than was really merited, now that I think back upon my actions.

Without missing a beat he reached behind him and threw up the window, continuing severely with "That makes no difference, Holmes. You must tell us when and where you have these dangerous experiments of yours!"

"You knew I was growing them!"

My feeble defense was obviously inaccurate, as he stalked in my direction with purpose a-burning in his eyes. I stepped backward and hit my back on the jack-knife embedded in the mantel, sending it twanging in indignant protest. I edged to one side.

Unfortunately the Doctor followed and then stopped in front of me. "I mean it, Holmes," he declared with emphasis. "One day your carelessness will cause someone serious grief, and then you will never forgive yourself for it."

I raised an eyebrow, for I failed – still do – to see how I could ever do something so horrible that I could not forgive myself. Regret it, possibly – but such an extreme reaction? Never. The fellow does have a penchant for extreme melodrama at times.

Besides, I do not often make mistakes that cause even a twinge of conscience, much less regret; and in this case it was entirely not my fault, no matter how much he wanted to rant about thoughtfulness and consideration and common sense and for heaven's sake look at me when I talk to you Holmes, etc., etc. I feel for the man's poor children, if he has any someday.

I had managed to quite effectively tune out his latest diatribe on the value of communication, when to disrupt my peace of mind the suddenly disturbing thought fluttered in – I had not even planned to come out of my room, and the Doctor had a rather large appetite of late.

He should have taken the full brunt of the dosage, and in his state of health the ensuing illness would have been…serious, to say the least.

And despite the humidity of the room, I felt suddenly quite chilled, as if from somewhere an arctic draught was blowing down the neck of my shirt and sending a shiver down my spine.

Watson seemed unaffected by this invisible chill, and so I can only attribute it to my somewhat distrait nerves. I finally held up a hand in mild remonstrance, and saw the bull-pup suddenly be yanked firmly back into the confines of its kennel.

"I will not be so careless again, Doctor," I stated simply; I have found that directness is usually the best oil for troubled waters. "No matter what faults I may possess, repeating my mistakes is not one I indulge in."

The storm gathering upon his brow lightened on the instant, and he relaxed. "Good." I breathed out slowly, and his eyes suddenly softened, smiling at the edges. "Mrs. Hudson will be frightened for days to serve anything in this house, you know."

"I suppose I should…" at his encouraging nod I continued, "…find a way to make it up to her?"

"That would be a good idea," he agreed, leaning his right elbow against the mantel in thought.

I scratched my upper lip with the stem of my pipe. "Have you…any ideas as to how I might go about that?" I finally asked humbly, for I am not afraid to acknowledge superiour expertise when it is in front of me. Especially since it rarely is.

"Not at the moment," he replied pensively. "But," and his eyes suddenly twinkled in an easily recognizable fit of mischief, "I believe you owe me dinner. Shall we discuss it on the way?"

I spluttered for a few seconds but really could not wriggle out of it – more because I have found myself powerless to refuse the fellow when he wears that particular expression than because I feel culpable for the evening's events.

At any rate, he was true to his word; and a large bouquet of flowers and a handsomely-scripted apology later, our landlady was slightly calmer and definitely of a greater peace of mind; by that, meaning I shall not have to worry about my toast being burnt or half my stockings disappearing in the laundry, for the next few days at least.

And now I must run, for Gregson requires my testimony at an inquest this afternoon. The Doctor has been out all morning with a friend, supposedly shopping for books (why the devil this excursion must occupy an entire morning, and how the man can enjoy taking such an inanely talkative fellow along with him, is more than I can fathom) and will not be back until evening.

Let us hope that dinner tonight shall be slightly less electrifying than last night's.