Torment and Regret

Watson is in obvious discomfort as we descend the stairs. As is his wont, he remains silent, not giving so much as a grunt of complaint, but it is clear - despite the manner in which he tries not to limp - that his old wounds are hurting him. As I take his arm, having stepped into the street, I discover that he is shivering as well.

"We shall take a cab home," I tell my friend. "I hope you do not mind old fellow, but I am somewhat weary and chilled."

His hand squeezes my arm and he immediately moves closer to my side. I recall that voicing my own discomforts always tended to receive a much better reaction than informing my Boswell that I was aware of his ever did. I am glad that that does not seem to have changed or else I would not know what to do.

As I hail a cab and allow Watson to get in ahead of me a light but chilling drizzle begins to fall. I am grateful for the rugs that the cabby supplies.

"Are you all right?" my old friend asks with no small amount of concern, despite the fact that he is still shivering, as I cover us both with the rugs provided.

I sniff quietly and address him with a smile in the darkness. "There is nothing wrong that a hot bath and glass of port cannot put right," I assure him. "But how are you?"

He raises his eyebrows at me in surprise. "I am fine! I have not been tirelessly touring the continent for three years, after all. You look much thinner than I ever remember seeing you and you do seem very tired."

I do hope that he does not intend to examine me; I do not wish to row with him tonight. No, I need not fear; my Boswell has neglected to bring his bag so a dispute between us is unlikely to take place this night. That does not mean that it may not happen tomorrow, however.

We travel in silence for a time, still not as comfortably as we had before my hiatus. Perhaps Watson is simply endeavouring to keep from expressing the pain that he is in; I can see that he is tense. There was a time when I would have offered the fellow what comfort I could, but he does not seem to wish for me to know that anything is wrong at all. That, of course, complicates matters.

Naturally, my Boswell ensures that I take my bath with enough time allowed for me to dry myself and, despite the pleasure that the warming water brings, I waste no time. I am not sure whether my friend intends to stay the night or not and I am not quite sure how to ask him. Anyway, if he is to return to his practice I hardly intend to waste any time. I scramble from the bath the moment that I am clean and dress without sparing a moment to dry myself; instead wrapping a towel about me to keep the shivers, which are already beginning in this chilly bathroom, at bay as I return to the sitting room.

Watson is sitting in his chair with a half-finishef glass of port in his hand, raised midway to his lips, as he gazes sleepily into the fire. Poor old fellow! He looks as weary as I feel. I silence a yawn and take to my own chair, opposite his.

"Thank you for coming back."

The words are little more than a sleepy mumble, but they arrest my attention at once. I smile at my friend of old.

"I only wish that I could have done so sooner," I confess quietly. "I never intended to be gone for so long."

"Mm."

Is that all that the fellow has to say? I lean forward in my chair and see at once that he has fallen asleep, his port glass resting somewhat precariously at the arm of his chair while his head rests propped against his uninjured shoulder. I act quickly, first taking the unfinished glass from his fingers and then carrying him to the settee, covering him first with his coat and then some warm rugs from the airing cupboard.

With my Boswell settled, I take the time to tend to myself. I first have a warming drink of my own and ensure that the fire is not about to go out and then I dry my dripping hair. I really do not wish to have my friend fussing over me tomorrow, however much the thought of him staying here might appeal to me; I want Watson the companion, not Watson the doctor.

Once I am dry and warmed I take to my bed, leaving my bedroom door ajar. I still wish to know that Watson is near now that I have returned and know not how I shall sleep when he is absent. The clawing loneliness that I felt during my hiatus has not completely abated even now.

I settle back and stare up at the ceiling. Tomorrow I must talk to Watson about moving back into his old room. He must surely need my company as much as I need his? With the decision made I close my eyes and permit myself to relax.

The sound of the Reichenbach Falls is almost deafening and the spray that is thrown up by the water as it hits the bottom truly is like the smoke rising from a burning house, just as Watson said. Even as I think of him, I see the fellow rush into view. He is clearly winded, having hastened back to me as soon as he knew that the note that requested him to return to the inn was a ruse, and he is limping.

Anxiously, the fellow approaches the edge, much too close for my liking, and calls for me. I almost call back but stop myself. It would be best, for the time being, if the world believes me to be dead. All the same, tears of regret and anguish stab at my eyes as my Boswell breaks down. I never knew that anyone could love me, of all people, like that and this revelation hurts me far more than the separation will, I am sure.

It takes all of my resolve to remain hidden. Were Watson now alone in the world, I am sure that I could not carry this decision through, but he has his dear and loving wife; he shall be all right. As he moves away I realise, as one often does in dreams, that Mary will be dead before I can return. It is this knowledge that breaks me and I awake gasping for breath while tears stream down my face.

"Holmes?" Watson calls sleepily from his place on the settee when I begin to cough. "Are you all right?"

Damn! I had forgotten that my friend was in the next room - not that I could have controlled my reactions while I slept and my guard was down at any rate.

I clear my throat before giving a response. "Yes Watson. I just need some water; give me a moment."

By the time that I have made my way down to the kitchen, filled a glass with drinking water and returned to my bedroom my hands are steady. I have also washed my face at the kitchen sink so that there is no sign of the emotional state that I was in when I awoke. Watson is a doctor, and a sympathetic one at that, but I would not like to talk to him about this. I might break down again and that would never do. Besides, such a show of emotion from me is bound to unnerve and upset him.

To reassure my friend I return to the sitting room, where I find him quite wakeful and anxiously awaiting my return. He frowns at me and hands me his handkerchief.

"You are catching a cold I fear," he remarks with concern as I take the cloth gratefully and quietly blow my nose. "And no wonder if you will insist on wandering the house without a dressing gown or slippers. My God Holmes! How ever did you survive the past three years without catching pneumonia?"

I simply shrug and sip at the water in my hand while he wraps me in one of the rugs. I could assure him that I am most certainly not unwell, but then I would have to tell him of the nightmare. I would prefer for the fellow to draw his own conclusion, I suppose.

"I could simply have choked in my sleep," I remind my friend at length. "I could have become entangled in my bedcovers, rested my throat against my arms or hands..."

He frowns back at me. "Hum, and is that what happened, or are you only trying to put me off? Further more, how is your throat? I take it that it is hurting you after Moran attempted to strangle you. Perhaps I should take a look at it."

In an instant the gas has been turned up and my friend is indeed examining my throat for signs of damage and the rest of me for signs of illness. At last he seems satisfied.

"There is some bruising to your throat left by that damned Moran, but you do seem to be well otherwise," he says with obvious relief. "If there is anything else amiss, it surely cannot be more than a slight chill that you are catching."

I smile at him and assure him that I do feel quite all right.

"All the same, you should rest for a day or two," the chap informs me. "I would not like for you to become ill old fellow - I know that you would not send for me if you did."

I shrug and finish the water. It does help my throat somewhat. "You have patients that take priority."

Watson shakes his head and touches my arm briefly. "You are my friend. If you need me you should send for me."

I close my eyes and nod, unable to trust my own response. For some reason I still feel somewhat emotional. It is inexplicable! And yet... Perhaps it can be attributed to relief; it is not unheard of for tensions to catch up on a fellow when the danger has passed. It is, however, almost unheard of for me to react in such a manner.

"Are you sure that you are all right?" my Boswell asks of me. "Your eyes seem a little too bright."

I permit myself a cavernous yawn, which I cover with my arm, and blink back at him. "Sleepy," I mumble as my eyelids slowly sag and half-close.

"Yes, it is late. I shall have to rise early tomorrow as well; the influenza season is not quite over yet."

Then I shall have to rise early as well. I am about to return to bed when I remember my violin and decide that we both might sleep better for a few soothing notes. As I raise my sorely missed instrument to my chin I hear my companion give a quiet sigh of contentment and settle himself to listen.

By the time I have finished my first piece, the fellow is snoring quietly. Still I continue, for my Boswell may be soothed and slumbering peacefully but I am not yet ready to face my bed.

Before I am midway through the third piece Watson has curled up on his side and ceased to snore. Good! If memory serves me, he does not always snore and so that would most likely be a sign that something was amiss. I may not be a doctor but I am observant and I know my dear friend.

Having ended the music with a flourish I ensure that my Boswell is warm and comfortable before stoking the fire once more and turning down the gas. I then get myself another glass of water and return to my bed, safe in the knowledge that I shall undoubtedly awake very early tomorrow.