From ThatSassyCaptain: Due to unforeseen circumstances, Holmes and Watson have been banished from 221B for a week. On such short notice, what do they do?

It was early in my association with Sherlock Holmes, not long after the Jefferson Hope case, that I returned home from a meeting with the army pension board to discover the man himself standing outside of our lodgings. He wore a meek, apologetic expression and there were two cases beside him, one of which I recognised as my own.

"I am afraid to tell you that we shall be forced to seek alternative lodgings for the week," he offered by way of explanation. "I grabbed as many of your clothes as I could, for I thought it best to take them out of the smell."

"Smell?"

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I was conducting an experiment you see, highly important to a case I have been working recently, but it uh... well. Exploded."

"Exploded? Oh dear." I was growing used to my friend's peculiar ways and habits, from gunshots in the wall to a jack-knife for correspondence, but this was a first.

"Mrs Hudson informs me that it will take a week to air out the rooms and furniture."

This was not ideal, as I had no other acquaintances in London than Holmes himself. Even Stamford, who had introduced us both, had moved recently to the country. "Well, I suppose the lodging house I stayed before we met..."

"Capital! What was it called?"

"The Chancery Arms."

"Ah yes, I know it," Holmes said, and handed over my bag. "Would you mind if I called on you there in a few days? I have a feeling I may need some help on this case."

I took my bag, somewhat nonplussed. "You mean you don't need a room?"

"Oh I have somewhere I can go - a little bolt-hole," he assured me. "It's small and somewhat grubby, but I shall get my work done easier there. This whole business is rather an irksome distraction."

"Indeed," I answered blandly, deciding not to point out that he had no one to blame for said-distraction but himself. He may have noticed my reticence, however, for he sniffed and said,

"Come, let us hail a hansom and drop you at your lodging house."

"I will call on you in a few days," he said as I stepped from the cab, "If that is agreeable?"

"Of course."

I waved him away and, just as Holmes's cab had clattered out of sight, a young maid came to place a "No Vacancies" sign into the window.

This was unfortunate. The increase I had requested to my army pension had, that day, been rejected, and I had no working knowledge of London and its hotels. I knew this lodging house to be warm, comfortable and, above all, cheap. Aside from here, I knew of only one alternative.

The Docklands Mermaid was my first lodging place when I arrived in London. I was, of course, in even worse condition than I was now and simply followed where other soldiers went. I discovered quickly that it was a disreputable place, and was tempted to gambling more than once. More than that, I had arrived back in London in its warmest period, but as winter had set in it became apparent that I would have to seek an alternative if I wanted any hope of recovery.

And now here I was again, in mid-November, asking for a room. It was the same, toothless man who offered to help me with my luggage, but this time my shoulder was able to take the strain. I took the key and went up to my room on the second floor.

It was a different room than that I had stayed in the last time I was here, and colder than before, but the layout was entirely the same. Bare walls, stained linen, one small and flickering gas lamp. I dropped my bag, feeling suddenly weary.

I had never thought to step foot in this place again. I had an undeniable sense of moving backwards in time and, as though in response to this, my leg and shoulder twinged in joint pain. I changed and burrowed under the covers.

I had little to do in London. No friends, little energy. My Baker Street home had provided me somewhere to at least write and store my books, not to mention Holmes's company and the occasional case he might ask me to join him on. A quick rummage revealed that Holmes had only thought to pack the bare essentials. I had enough to pay for bed and board, but did not think my wallet would stretch to a cab ride across the city to Baker Street to pick up my belongings.

It was only a week, I reasoned with myself, but I could feel an undeniable and familiar melancholia creeping over me. I decided I would deal with it much as I had the last time I had lodged here; by sleeping through it.

The next few days passed slowly. I did my best, but the cold made my leg ache too greatly to go out walking. I came out of my rooms for dinner, opting to eat alone rather than converse with any of the rowdy clientele. Even if I had been inclined, I was exhausted, for a mix of the cold and of memories stirred of my army time had meant that though I slept often, I still felt decidedly unrested.

On the fifth day of my stay at The Docklands Mermaid, Sherlock Holmes paid me a visit.

"Watson!"

I turned from my meal - unappetising and largely untouched - with surprise. I had entirely forgotten he had said he might call, and wondered how he had discovered where I was staying, for I had also forgotten to update him on the situation.

"I was quite surprised to find you weren't at your lodging house," he told me, as though reading my mind. "Fortunately, a young maid spotted you outside the window and recognised you from the last time you were there. Apparently the two of you had a conversation on that occasion, and you had told her where you had come from. I assumed that would be a likely alternative for where you would spend the week." He wrinkled his nose. "You know Watson, I think she had something of a sweet spot for you."

I scoffed. "Why would a young maid be interested in a cripple such as myself?"

Holmes winced and I instantly felt guilty. Perhaps my time here was affecting me more than I had realised.

"Only a joke," I offered, but sounded unconvincing even to my own ears. I deemed it best to change the subject. "Well, now you have found me, what did you want me for? A case?"

I fear my questions were somewhat over-eager, for Holmes's smile was indulgent and knowing.

"Gather your things and meet me outside. I shall settle up the bill here."

"Oh no, that really isn't necessary-"

"Watson, it is entirely my fault you find yourself without a home this week," his tone was stern. "Now hurry my dear fellow, I have a cab waiting for us outside."

As it transpired, Holmes had also been living for the week in his old lodgings - a flat in Montague Street. It wasn't so bad as I had imagined from the few throwaway references he had made of the place beforehand, but I could see why it was unsuited to him. The living space was very small, far too small to host his chemistry set, files and - though I knew it was hypocritical of me to say so - his mess. More to the point, it was far enough away from Scotland Yard that it must have been a great inconvenience before he moved.

"You can take the bedroom." He waved to the door. "I cannot sleep with my mind bent on this case."

"I don't want to leave you alone..." I began haltingly, but the notion of a warm, comfortable bed was indeed a promising one.

"I need you well-rested for tonight." His eyes glinted with the promise of adventure. "Sleep, Watson, and I will tell you all when you awake."

It was not Baker Street, but with the sounds of Holmes moving around and muttering to himself next door, I could almost imagine I was back home. I fell into a peaceful sleep within moments.