The Storm Breaks

I am pulled from a pleasant dream, which I only half-remember, by the demands of my irksome body. It may be a mere appendix to my brain, but there are times when it screams too loudly for even me to ignore. Damn! I must have been badly in need of sleep, for usually I would have been disturbed long before now. Where am I and where is the washroom?

I realise with some gratitude that I am in my own room at Baker Street and that I am not going to have to search for the facilities (it is not always easy to recall such things as the floorplan of a place to mind when a fellow's brain is still befuddled with sleep - especially if he has only moved in late the night before and not thought to seek out more than his bed) as I have on countless mornings these past three years. With as much haste as I dare I disentangle myself from my bed and hasten in the direction of the little washroom which is situated behind a discreet door in the sitting room.

"Good morning Holmes."

How I keep myself from jumping I am not quite sure, but I am certainly glad of it. I am not usually foolish enough to drink so much before I sleep and this resulting discomfort is almost unbearable! I somehow keep still and stand straight as I respond; Watson does not need to know how I am feeling at this moment. I maintain my usual calm demeanor as I return the fellow's greeting with a tight smile. I then excuse myself as quickly as politeness will allow.

It is while I am washing my hands that I recall that I had wanted to awake before Watson left for his confounded practice. I rush back through to the sitting room and join the fellow at the breakfast table.

"You are up early," my friend remarks. "Is that a new habit or were you unable to sleep?"

I shrug and conceal a yawn. I may have wanted to awake early, but I still feel in need of sleep. I cannot recall the last morning on which I could have remained in my bed until noon had I wanted.

"How is your throat?" is the next question. "I noticed that you were drinking rather a lot of water last night; it must have been troubling you terribly."

I nod and pull my dressing gown closer to me with a shiver. Weariness often causes me to feel chilly.

"Are you sure that you have not caught a cold?"

Oh Watson! I slam my eyes shut and grind my teeth. "I am quite all right," I assure him brusquely. "You did check me for signs of illness last night, if you recall."

He nods and tries not to yawn. "Sorry Holmes. You simply do not seem to be yourself. You only ever drink water when you are feeling particularly unwell, for one thing..."

"My throat was sore from being strangled; I believe that that is quite normal. Really Watson! Do not fret so."

He frowns back at me. "I am not fretting! It does not take a doctor to see that you are weary and shivering."

No, it does not. I would notice immediately if even a complete stranger was feeling as weary and cold as I currently am.

The fellow touches my hand gently and frowns. "You are freezing! I really think that you should go back to bed. Is there anything that you need?"

More than anything, I want companionship; I have been intolerably lonely these past three years. I shake my head and attempt to order my thoughts, for I desperately want to talk to the fellow about moving back in with me now, so that he has ample opportunity to consider it in his own time.

"Are you quite sure that you are all right?" my friend asks of me yet again, with still more concern, as I begin to caress the tablecloth as if I were stroking a cat in my effort to calm myself.

I nod and force myself to meet his gaze. "I have been dreadfully lonely, these past three years..." I begin awkwardly, as I attempt to voice my proposition. It is not in my habit to prevaricate and it frustrates and angers me, but I simply cannot find the appropriate words to say.

"Oh God!" he squeezes my hand gently. "All right old fellow, I understand. I must say that it surprises me that you should have even thought to find company in such a manner, but it is quite normal..."

I give a start and stare back at him. "What the deuce are you talking about?"

He raises his eyebrows. "I thought that you were trying to explain to me why you are feeling unwell. You gave me the impression that you were trying to make a confession of some kind."

"Are you insane?" I shout at him. "What do you think I might have been doing, aside from trying to keep out of sight of Moriarty's vengeful companion? No! Do not answer that. I know what you were thinking! You doctors are all the same!"

I should not have said that. I hastily grip his arm and apologise as he attempts to stand.

"Forgive me old fellow. You know how I can be when I have not slept peacefully."

He frowns at me for a long moment. "Then go and do so now."

It can wait. "Please, just listen!" I shout at him as I run my hands through my far from tidy hair in my frustration.

"I haven't the time Holmes. I have to get back to my practice."

As he shrugs on his coat I throw caution to the wind. "I think that it is ridiculous that we are living rather lonely lives when we both know that we are perfectly compatible," I all but shout at him, so anxious am I to make myself understood.

Watson freezes and stares back at me for a long moment. "You are right when you say that you are a selfish wretch," he informs me in the dangerously calm tone which he uses when he is about to fly into a fit of temper. And now the storm breaks. "How dare you Holmes! You left me to grieve for you for three damned years, in which time I lost my dear wife and received very little support, and now you turn up and just expect everything to just go back to the way that it was! I hope you were lonely - I hope that you were bloody miserable! - because I certainly have been!"

And with that he is limping away and has vanished in a series of slamming doors, leaving me to stare after him with stinging eyes. What did I say to upset him so? All that I said was that I have been lonely and know that he must be as well! Why did he react in such a manner?

With a groan I massage my suddenly throbbing forehead before bringing it down to rest in my hands with a strangled sob. Everything has gone wrong! After all my effort to return quickly, all the fretting that I have done... A sob of despair escapes my painful throat. It was all for nothing! It would have been better if I truly had gone over the Reichenbach Falls; at least then my only friend would still have had faith in me.

This is just a quick acknowledgement to all of the guests for their kind and encouraging reviews. I have intended to do this for at least two chapters but, as I am in the habit of responding by personal message, I have continuously forgotten - I apologise for my tardiness. In any case, thank you all very much! I hope that you continue to enjoy the story.