"I should probably change clothes," Watson noted with a glance at his wrinkled suit. "Just a minute."
A slow limp carried him toward the back room and out of sight, and Holmes took the opportunity to inspect the room in more detail. The bookshelf had not been touched in weeks, and then only to move a photo album somewhere else—probably the bedroom. A journal rested on the desk, but the last date read months ago. The wall lamps carried the residue that indicated a lack of use rather than a lack of cleaning. Did Watson spend all his time in that chair?
Apparently so, and Holmes fought to hide his concern. The Watson he knew would never have been able—much less preferred—to spend hours staring at nothing. Even when at his most sedate, he occupied himself by reading, writing, and various other mentally challenging tasks. Holmes was the one able to spend days doing nothing—but only in the grips of his darkest Black Moods.
Did that mean Watson now fought against a Black Mood? Holmes did not remember seeing his friend deal with them Before.
Watson returned before Holmes could look further, the cane in one hand only highlighting the pain in every slow step. The fresh clothes did nothing for the hesitance in his eyes.
And in his words. "Shall we?"
Holmes nodded immediately, leading the way out the door Watson locked behind them. He decided not to comment on the fine tremors that made Watson struggle to find the keyhole.
"Would you rather go somewhere besides Simpson's?"
"No, Simpson's is fine."
Watson left it at that, his gaze on his feet as he slowly climbed into the cab. Holmes frowned and tried again.
"Why did your patients cancel?"
The partial deduction earned him a moment's eye contact, but a half shrug followed it. "They never tell me that."
Holmes's worry intensified. Instead of telling him why the patients today had canceled, Watson's response vaguely referenced previous appointments, which illuminated another pair of problems.
The patients Watson had claimed last night had never existed. Not only had his friend invented a reason to leave, but Watson did not have a source of income. That might explain why his friend had stopped eating.
He could do something about that. "Why did you let the maid go?"
Watson tensed minutely. "How did you know that?"
"Doris told me," Holmes admitted, omitting the lack of footprints on Watson's front step. A maid would not use the private entrance. "Jackson tried to visit this morning but thought you were with me. If you still had a maid, she would have opened the door."
Silence answered while Holmes paid the cabbie. "No reason to keep her," Watson finally muttered.
Not enough patients to pay her, that said in different words. Watson should know what he had deduced by now, but Holmes said nothing until they reached a table.
"Get what you want. My treat."
Watson's knuckles turned white on the menu. "You do not need to pay for mine."
"But I want to." He kept his eyes on his own menu, feigning a nonchalance he did not feel. "We have been over this."
Several times, though Holmes had not realized just how short of funds Watson must be.
An extended pause stood in place of the pawky remark Watson should have voiced. "You do not need to pay for mine," he repeated instead.
"Perhaps." He did not need to prick Watson's pride. "I intend to, anyway. That chicken dish looks delicious."
Watson impassively skimmed the description. "It does."
Holmes quickly hid his expression in looking for their server. A simple lack of money would not cause such indifference. Watson may not have the money to buy food, but he also did not have the appetite to want food. What could Holmes do about that?
He did not yet have enough data, but their server arrived before he could form another question. When pressed, Watson ordered the smallest, cheapest thing on the menu then quickly changed the topic.
"When did you see Doris?"
"Earlier this morning," he replied as the server brought their drinks. "Jackson ran for help when a tunnel collapsed behind his sister. He tried your practice first, and Doris mentioned you letting the maid go when no one met Jackson's knock." He paused, debating how to word his question. "Did you not hear him?"
"No," was the preoccupied reply. Watson's napkin apparently refused to lie flat. "I was probably in the back room."
Holmes frowned. Aside from the affected distraction, Watson's tone suggested "the back room" was a euphemism for somewhere other than the back of his house or even the washroom. Where did he reference?
He had no idea, but he also had no way of learning more. Watson glanced across the room, looked partway back at his napkin, then refocused on the other wall. A small piece of a much larger grief lined his face. Something had reminded him of Mary.
Checking the area revealed nothing more than a bare wall behind two empty tables.
"Watson?"
His friend did not quite smother a jump, visibly tearing his attention away from the wall. "Sorry," he said shortly, avoiding Holmes' gaze. "Is that how you scraped your arm?"
A nod sufficed as answer. "You know, if you had moved back to Baker Street, you might have been able to help."
One shoulder lifted, though Watson's eyes tracked someone walking behind Holmes. "I'm fine where I am."
Fine. There was something else that had changed. Whenever Holmes asked about his friend, a simple "fine" tried to halt any further discussion. Watson was far too quiet.
"Mrs. Hudson complained the other day about having too much food for one tenant," Holmes added.
Watson made no reply, displaying the next stage. If Holmes ignored the hint behind "fine," Watson fell silent. Every new clue declared that Watson fought against a Black Mood to rival some of Holmes' darkest.
How could he help?
Whenever Holmes had found himself trapped, he remembered as Watson started pushing his meal around instead of eating it, his friend had always insisted on Holmes' presence. Stubborn persistence had dragged Holmes to the sitting room to be plied with food at regular intervals. Occasionally, short comments had broken the silence, though Watson had never grown irritated when Holmes ignored him, and an ample supply of blankets had always occupied the back of the settee. He had never admitted just how much Watson's company had eased the darker days.
Perhaps Watson needed to move back to Baker Street just as much as Holmes wanted him there. Holmes would take any reason to have his friend back under the same roof—especially if it also banished the gaunt, dismal air that clung to his friend. Watson should not look so haunted.
A half-jesting deduction related to another diner brought only silence. This would be a long road.
A many years long road. Do you think he knows that?
Hope you enjoyed, and thank you very much to those who reviewed in recent days!
Jean-Moddalle: someone's paying attention! yes, Little Jones is probably at home, dreaming of the day he takes over the bakery from his Father (and not yet knowing just how much fun he'll have making a game out of spotting the Irregulars come for the bread his father leaves out for them)
Fireguardian: I loved following along as you read Court of Minds, and I lol'd when you called out on chapter 2 that things probably wouldn't go as planned. Glad you're enjoying :)
