A/N: Y'know, it seems like some days you just can't get anything right, and the Great Detective is no exception.
Holmes's POV.
My throat was dry, my mouth tasted of bitter regret and my insides roiled with shame and disgust with myself.
How could I have been so horribly insensitive?! How could I have ever said such a thing to my dearest, my only friend?
I could hear Watson in the bedroom above mine, pacing.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
Watson only paced when he was horribly upset. My stomach clenched and I thought for a moment I would be sick. Ugh! I threw myself into my armchair and hurled my pipe across the room utter disgust of myself.
Sure, I had not meant to offend him, but my words hadn't needed much twisting to sound as though they did. I had not meant to imply that he was slow or dull-witted—quite the contrary! My friend was an exceedingly bright fellow, and it was hardly my fault I was blessed with an even keener intellect still.
If only that intellect would've served to alert me that my words would produce such a reaction from my poor Watson, so I might have bitten my tongue instead!
I jumped to my feet, and kicked a reference book, which I had left lying upon the floor earlier. As if the pain in my smarting toes would do something to lessen the regret that filled me and left me burning with shame.
If only, if only…perhaps no more useless a phrase had ever been thought! What good does it do to reinspect every moment of one's past regrets as though under a microscope, when one can do nothing to change them? What good does it do to think of a thousand things I could have said instead, when now it's too late to say any of them? What good does it do to think of a thousand ways to apologize, when I doubt I'll ever have a chance to say any of them?
Who knew how long my rash words would have this effect on Watson. I stared into the fire, at a loss as to what I could possibly say or do to make amends.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, he paced.