I have decided to make up for my own hiatus by submitting long chapters thick and fast, it would seem. I must thank my dear friend and Beta, Ems, for her assistance, because without her this chapter would have taken me considerably longer and would more than likely have still been illegible.

While I am handing out my "thank you"s, thank you to all of my reviewers - particularly those of you that I cannot respond to by Private Message. It is always nice to receive feedback and to know that one's story is being enjoyed.

Mr. Lestrade

Lestrade would appear to be pleased to receive me - albeit somewhat surprised at my arrival at this time of the morning. Apparently, it is not terribly polite to appear unannounced on a fellow's doorstep before nine o'clock of a morning without any warning.

I am showed into the parlour and Mrs. Lestrade takes my hat, stick and coat while she offers me a cup of tea and some breakfast. Her husband looks on with some amusement as she bullies me into sitting down and "at least taking a cup of tea and some biscuits" - I suspect that the inspector is rather proud of his wife.

"What brings you here at this hour, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade enquires with poorly-contained curiosity as I warm my hands on my steaming cup and try not to sniff - there is a delicious smell coming from the kitchen, but my nerves are much too frayed to permit me to partake of anything.

It is time to swallow my pride. "I should like your advice," I confess quietly.

He grins at me for a moment, his dark eyes twinkling, and hastily sets aside his own cup and saucer. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes wants my advice!" he crows. "I never thought I'd see the day! What sort of a case is it? A gruesome murder, in which all of the likely suspects have solid alibis? Or perhaps it's a theft that has you stumped?"

I shake my head and take a long, calming sip of my tea. "It is nothing of that sort Lestrade. Forgive me, perhaps I am wasting your time..."

"Not at all Mr. Holmes! Not at all!" the fellow insists hastily. "Please, tell me all. I should like to think that you could ask my advice about anything you wanted to - as an acquaintance if not as a colleague - I'd be glad to help you if I can."

Even after all these years, the inspector still only counts the two of us as 'acquaintances', while Watson was rather quick to befriend me - and the Yarder, once he came to know the fellow. I envy the doctor - he makes friends so very effortlessly, while I can only look on and wonder how exactly he does it. I cannot help but wonder whether Lestrade would call my friend his friend, or another mere acquaintance.

"Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade prompts me, a look of - is that concern or mere curiosity? - probable curiosity upon his face as he gazes at me. "What ever is the matter?"

I realise that his eyes keep drifting to my teacup and glance down to find that my hands are shaking. That most certainly will not do! I finish my drink hastily, set aside the cup and place my hands in my lap so as to better control them.

Lestrade clears his throat and I realise that I have still not explained myself.

"It is Watson," I inform my 'acquaintance' as my eyes study the ceiling of his parlour. "He is unwell and grieving and..." I close my eyes for a moment and draw a deep, if somewhat shaky, breath. "...and nothing that I do or say would seem to be helping him at all. I am at my wits' end!"

"Ah-ha," he nods and allows his eyes to flick over me. "You thought that your friendship could just go back to the way that it was before you decided to play at being dead for three years, did you?"

I groan and rub at my aching forehead. "I had hoped that it had. We had seemed to put the last three years behind us, once I explained my reasons to Watson to the best of my ability. I think the fellow at least understands now that I only intended to keep him safe..."

He snorts and shakes his head. "You didn't see how he reacted. You weren't left to try to help him pick up the pieces again when he came home. Good God Mr. Holmes! How can you sit there and say that you thought that he understands? It's not as simple as that - he's been hurt and he's grieving. Feelings can't always just be swept aside by rational thought - however rational a gent might be. He needs time and patience."

I nod and swallow carefully, hoping that Lestrade cannot see my emotional state at this moment. "I am only trying to help the fellow! I know that he needs time - I am giving him time! - but he cannot go on as he is. He is not eating, he has clearly not been sleeping properly..." I run a hand through my hair and realise that I have not even thought to comb it before I left the house and that it is in disarray. "He has made himself ill and he is only going to make himself worse - he has a dreadful cold as it is and he has been fevered."

"Right, I think I see... You've been trying to look after him, as a good friend should, and he's being less than co-operative. Is that it?"

I slam my eyes shut and nod again. "Sometimes, he appreciates the effort that I am making - regardless of whether I actually succeed in doing him any good or not - but on other occasions he becomes angry... annoyed... impatient..." I shrug with my hands. "He sends me away in a fit of temper and I am left wondering what I have done wrong."

The Yarder smirks at me. "Have you tried asking him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

How can I admit that I am afraid that he will only shout at me again? I simply shrug my shoulders and turn my attention to the flickering flames in the hearth.

"Mr. Holmes," the inspector begins with a sigh. "I really have no idea what to say to you. You are a good detective - some might even say a great one, pride permitting - but you are not very..." he clears his throat and fidgets in his chair. "Your knowledge of human emotion needs some reviewing, perhaps."

I grind my teeth and clench my fists. I know about fear, anger - even love! - and if my knowledge of human emotion was so very lacking I would not be much of a detective at all. I have made my own studies of human psychology, thank you very much Mr. Lestrade!

He holds up his hands as I prepare to stand. "Calm down Mr. Holmes. Perhaps I should have worded that a little more delicately. Please, stay seated."

I force myself to relax as much as is possible, though my fists remain clenched.

"Now... What I mean to say is this..." he clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck. "Perhaps you and Doctor Watson have the same problem - you are both allowing your own emotional responses to cloud your judgement. Is that possible?"

What emotional responses? "I always maintain a very firm control over my emotions."

"Yes..." he gazes at me for a long moment. "Usually you do, yes. But I have seen you lose control of yourself once or twice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, so don't give me that. Now... Had it even crossed your mind that perhaps the doctor is not actually angry or upset with you at all?"

I blink back at him. "Then why would he shout at me and send me away?"

"Well... I can think of one or two reasons, off of the top of my head," he responds slowly, as if I have a sluggish brain that might struggle to keep up with him. "Pride would be the most likely explanation - perhaps he simply would prefer it if you didn't see him in the state that he is in. He has tried to turn me away when I called by to see him after Mrs. Watson passed away and that was my first thought then."

I feel my eyes widen in horror. "And so you simply permitted him to suffer alone?"

He stares back at me, affronted. "Of course I did not! The doctor is my friend as well, you know!"

That answers my earlier question, but I no longer care about that. "But Watson can be most forceful - and I always feel that my presence will only disturb the fellow further! How can one possibly...?"

"The doctor has been unwell, you say?" Lestrade asks, changing the subject. "How unwell, exactly?"

"Oh..." I rub at my paining head and sniff. "Unwell enough to cause me to fear for him. He insists that he will be over the worst of it soon enough, but he is barely eating and his sleep could hardly be called restful..."

He nods. "Grief can have that affect on the strongest of men and it never manifests itself in quite the same way twice. I'm not surprised that the poor chap is ill."

"Neither am I," I confess. "But still I feel horribly incompetent as a friend - I feel that I should be able to do something for him."

Lestrade's eyes widen and he gapes at me for a long moment. He then smiles and pats my hand. "I shall call by this evening," he assures me. "Where is the doctor? His house or yours?"

"Baker Street of course!" Where else would he be?

It takes me a moment to remember that Watson still has his practice and that I have no idea how it is faring in his absence. Perhaps he is also fretting about that, as I would my own practice if I were away from it without any opportunity to prepare it first. I shall have to call in there on my way home to ensure that all is in order - I do hope that my friend's neighbour knows that the fellow is away from home and is looking after his practice for him.

"I shall call by at around six o'clock," the inspector tells me. "I don't think I'll tell him that you've mentioned his being unwell though - he might not like that. If you prefer, I shall say that I called by to see him and his neighbour said that he was with you."

I thank Lestrade for his thoughtfulness, again decline the offer of breakfast and collect my outdoor clothing before stepping out into the street to discover that the weather has decided to match my dismal mood further by starting to rain. Oh well, at least Watson is in the warm and his friend the inspector intends to provide what assistance he can. I square my shoulders and attempt to hail a cab.