From W. Y. Traveller: Watson's gambling leads him to trouble.

Watson has been morose for over a week now, although perhaps it is only obvious to Holmes. He still engages on cases, smiles at the Yarders and keeps his regular routine - but there is something off.

Holmes doesn't wish to jump to conclusions, given the Doctor has only just moved back into Baker Street. Perhaps the lack of warmth in his smile, the disinterest in writing, and the general aura of malaise is something that developed in the three years the detective was away. Watson lost his wife during that time; perhaps these things are part of the grieving process.

Holmes puzzles over it for another week, watching Watson carefully, until eventually he spots something unusual.

"You no longer carry your brother's pocket watch?"

They are not on a case, but out for a snowy December amble around London. Uncharacteristically it was Holmes who suggested the outing, having spotted the Doctor's brooding, shuttered expression. Midway through the walk Watson's hand went for his left breast pocket, where he used to keep the watch, but he abandoned the motion midway.

"I no longer have it." Watson's tone strains for levity. "I er- lost it."

Holmes wonders whether to honour the lie, worries he may be overstepping when he asks, "Recently?" He knows the answer already, for the watch was still in Watson's possession at least 4 weeks ago. Holmes has a distinct memory of his friend pulling it out to demonstrate how late they were for their dinner reservation, just a few days before Watson moved his things back to Baker Street. "Perhaps Mrs Hudson cleared it away?"

"She didn't." Watson answers shortly, and the rest of the walk passes in silence.

He begins by looking in their flat, but the search turns up nothing and Watson was correct that Mrs Hudson didn't move it. Next he goes to Watson's old practice and asks the new owner - his cousin, although this is still unbeknownst to Watson himself - if he might search there too. His cousin, eternally grateful for Holmes's financial support in securing such a well-established practice, is only too obliging. Again the search is unsuccessful.

Next is Watson's old Kensington house, but Holmes was there to help him move. As Watson had avoided several rooms as much as possible, (the bedroom, living room, and untouched nursery), Holmes took it upon himself to check that all was clean and empty. He would have certainly seen Watson's prized heirloom if it had been dropped somewhere.

Christmas draws closer and the Irregulars are eager to earn some extra coin in time for the holiday. He sends them on all the regular routes Watson takes for his rounds and his extra work as police surgeon at Scotland Yard. It is a long shot, but one that eventually proves fruitful; one of the boys spots a patient of the Doctor's outside and, when he enquires for the time, recognises the watch that the gentleman pulls out.

The man who answers the door to Holmes is not at all what he expected. He is dressed in only shirtsleeves and audible through the short corridor behind him are the babbles of young children and the low murmur of what Holmes assumes is his wife. Clearly Holmes has interrupted a family meal, but the man's smile seems genuinely welcoming. A quick look reveals that the man is of modest but stable income, although a betting slip poking out from a coat pocket in the hall suggests a penchant for gambling, which could explain the motivation behind the theft.

"Can I help you?"

"You have taken something that doesn't belong to you," Holmes cuts straight to the chase. "A gentleman's pocket watch, engraved upon the back with the initials 'HW'?"

The man's forehead creases in genuine confusion. "I am sorry, sir, I believed that watch belonged to Doctor John Watson?"

And now it is Holmes who is confused. "Indeed it does. But you are not Doctor John Watson."

"No, I am not," the man agrees with a slight laugh at the peculiar turn of the conversation. "I am Reginald Baker, one of Dr Watson's patients. He gave me the watch, you see."

Holmes's eyebrows shoot up. "He gave it to you? I find that somewhat difficult to believe."

Mr Baker looks cautious now, eyes Holmes suspiciously up and down. "Are you an acquaintance of Doctor Watson's?"

"I am his colleague and flatmate," Holmes replies, "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Goodness! I thought I recognised you, from those pictures in the Strand!" Mr Baker goes to a coat on the stand - the one with the betting slip poking out - and produces Watson's watch from that same pocket. "I am quite glad to see you, truth be told. You see Doctor Watson insisted I take this, in recompense for a wager he advised me to place."

"A wager?"

Mr Baker shrugs bashfully. "It was only a spot of fun, with some colleagues from the magazine I work for. I don't make a habit of it, but the day the doctor came to see me was the same day I was due at the races. I asked his opinion and he seemed to know a bit more about it than I did."

Still, Holmes is puzzled. "Did you lose a great deal of money?"

"Only what I deserved," Mr Baker chuckles, but his expression soon darkens. "I wish I hadn't mentioned it to Doctor Watson, for something peculiar seemed to come over him. Thrust this at me and wouldn't take my reassurances that I didn't need any compensation. I would have lost money one way or another, regardless of whether I'd followed his advice, and it was no large sum. Certainly not enough to warrant an heirloom."

Holmes hums thoughtfully. "How much would you want for it, Mr Baker?"

"Nothing at all, Mr Holmes," Baker says firmly, extending the watch toward the detective. "Watson has always been an excellent doctor with fair prices. I haven't felt right since he gave it to me. I know he has been through some difficulties, since his wife died... Perhaps this will help make his Christmas a little brighter."

Holmes accepts the watch and turns to leave. "I certainly hope so, Mr Baker."

"I have a gift for you. Only I'm not sure if you want it."

Watson looks up from the book he is reading with an expression of incredulity. The book, Holmes notes with an inward smirk, is A Christmas Carol; Watson's taste for sentimentalist literature is evidently unimpacted by the events of the last three years.

"That is quite the unusual precursor to a gift, Holmes. And given on Christmas Eve? Highly irregular."

Holmes chooses not to elaborate further, simply produces the watch and holds it up so Watson can see.

"Ah." Watson lays aside his book warily - which, Holmes supposes, is better than angrily. "I did wonder what case it was that kept you so occupied last week. I assume you met with Mr Baker?"

"I did," Holmes confirms, "but he was as confused as I, as to why you would think yourself responsible for such an insignificant wager."

Watson's cheeks redden slightly. "It may have been something of an overreaction. But you see there was a period after Mary's death where I found myself lapsing into old habits."

"Gambling?"

Watson nods. In their first year of living together, he had requested that Holmes keep a guard of his pocketbook to protect future rent payments from his taste for the races. It was a peculiar interaction, neither one of them having known each other very well back then, but retrospectively Holmes considers it to be one of the cementing moments of their friendship.

"Did you lose a lot of money?"

"Truthfully I had little to lose, for I was barely working at the time." Watson closes his eyes and takes a deep, slow breath as he conjures up the recollection. "After a few difficult months, I resolved that I would not gamble again and forced myself to account and budget for everything so there was no space to let any funds slip. A month or so ago, when Mr Baker asked about the horses it felt... well." Watson opens his eyes with a rueful smile. "It felt like a loophole. And when he told me he had lost, I remembered my brother."

"Your brother? The same who owned the watch?"

"Yes, Holmes. Henry Watson - Harry, to those who knew him. He was a gambler too, as you know, and so too were my father and grandfather. An unfortunate family trait."

"And what did remembering your brother have to do with giving away his watch?"

"You will think it foolish," Watson warns, but Holmes urges him to continue and he does. "When Mr Baker told me he lost his bet I found myself thinking how peculiar it was that the Watsons had passed on this trait of- of losing things, to gambling... and yet we had never lost that damned watch! Harry tried to pawn it four times and still it always came back! I found myself thinking that perhaps- perhaps if I could get rid of the watch, I might get rid of the addiction. Lose something truly valuable and finally break this terrible chain..."

Holmes is silent a few moments, rubbing a thumb across the watch's engraved "H.W.". There is more to this story, of that he is certain. The gambling, the sudden decision to thrust the watch away, the desire to keep the loss hidden... it speaks to Watson's mental state, the stress and grief he has been subject to since the death of his wife, and details from Holmes's time away that Watson has not yet chosen to reveal.

But still, Holmes does not want to overstep and unsettle the tentative friendship reforming once more between them. So all he asks is,

"Did I make a mistake, bringing this back to you?"

Watson shakes his head fervently and rises from his armchair. He limps forward, for his leg always pains him more when it is snowing outside, and takes the watch from Holmes. "As easy as it might be were it so, this watch is not the cause of my gambling problems. Nor my brother's, nor my father's. It has felt odd not having its weight in my pocket this past month or so, and I am glad to have it back." Watson drops the pocket watch back into its usual pocket and smiles at Holmes. It is a warm smile, one that reaches his eyes and of the kind Holmes remembers from before his hiatus. "It really was very thoughtful of you to retrieve this for me. Thank you, Holmes."

"Merry Christmas, Watson," Holmes answers with a smile of his own, glad that there is one thing, at least, that has not changed between them.