He was in a somber mood for months afterward. Many mourned for the expected three-month period, but he stubbornly wore the black. He watched the funeral, moving him and I around to watch the procession from more than one spot.
He was in a bad mood already from a lack of cases, but this drove him into habits that shocked me as a medical man and worried me as his friend. I visited him often, trying to help him in whatever way I could. Our conversations ran thus:
"Holmes? Anything you need?"
"No."
I made little progress in the first few months, but he never asked me to leave, so I took that to mean that my company was enough. I never failed to ring for two suppers, though his usually went to waste. I could sometimes convince him to play for me, but the notes were melancholy.
One day though, I arrived to find him dressed for the first time for months, though still in black. He had had a few small cases come his way and I hope this to mean he was finally done mourning.
For five long months he had eaten little, did little, and was very quiet. All to mourn for the loss of the women whose initials he had put in the wall with bullets.
Yea, bad week so far, this really reflects the mood I'm in.