He is hurting.

I can see it in the way he walks into the room, shuffling in, favoring one leg. I can hear it in his voice, sounding far too tired. He looks older than I know he is. It isn't hard to deduce that he has been waking up at night, shouting names, of people and places, many that I don't know, and some that are far too familiar. The dark patches under his eyes make that much obvious.

I walk over and hand him my flask of coffee. He looks at me, and smiles gratefully. "Thank you, Lestrade."


In case I haven't made it clear, this is Lestrade's point of view on Dr Watson, soon after Reichenbach.