Grieving is Horrible

By the time that I reach Baker Street the hour is approaching noon. I am chilled to the bone and as wet as I am weary, but I am home. I toss aside the provided rugs and step down from the cab, casting a nervous glance toward the windows of our sitting room as I pay the driver. I wonder whether Watson's mood will have improved at all in my absence.

"Mr. Holmes! Just look at you!" Mrs. Hudson scolds as I step inside and wearily wipe my feet. "You are soaking wet! What have you been doing?"

I attempt to shrug nonchalantly but I am much too cold and my muscles are tense from shivering. "I have been out Mrs. Hudson," I inform her through chattering teeth. "Watson wanted some time to himself."

She raises her eyebrows at me and frowns. "I hope that you have not had another quarrel," she says in a somewhat accusatory tone, as if I am the only fellow that has a nasty temper when the mood takes him.

How tempting it is to snap at our irksome housekeeper! Never the less I calm myself, keeping in mind the support and patience that she has given to me when I have been most in need. It would never do to lose my temper with her now.

"Mrs. Hudson, as you can see I am chilled to the marrow and quite fagged. I should be most grateful if you would be so kind as to bring me a hot cup of coffee."

Her blue eyes sweep over me as her annoyance changes to concern. "Are you all right sir? I hope that you are not going to become as unwell as the poor doctor. He has been coughing all morning and was so hoarse when I spoke to him last that I could barely understand him - I gave him a little brandy and left him with plenty of drinking water."

I had been about to lose patience when she mentioned my own health, but I am grateful to her for caring for my Boswell in my absence and say so. "But I am not ill," I add. "I am merely weary and in need of a good, strong cup of coffee and perhaps a change of clothes. Excuse me."

She tuts. "Humph! 'Perhaps a change of clothes' indeed! I should think that that should be the first priority."

I nod and casually silence a sneeze. "I shall be all right," I assure the fretting woman over my shoulder as I make my way up the seventeen steps to my bedroom. I do not wish to see Watson just yet - he will only become unnecessarily concerned if he sees me like this.

As I let myself into my bedroom, shedding my freezing clothes that cling to my quaking frame the moment I have closed the door, Watson calls out to me. His throat truly does sound strained and I hardly want him to attempt raising his voice like that again and so I hastily open the door of the room that joins onto that of our sitting room, ensuring that I remain out of his sight.

"Are you all right Holmes?" my Boswell enquires as his footsteps approach the open door. "I saw how terribly wet and cold you were when you drew up in the cab."

I shake some of the water from my hair and run a hand over my wet face. There are still drops dribbling down my neck and dripping from the tip of my nose.

"Here," my friend hands me a towel that he has obviously brought from the washroom. "You should dry your hair before you catch your death of cold. Would you like a brandy? I shall get you one while you change your clothes - come through to the sitting room once you are decent."

Until this moment, I had forgotten that the majority of my clothes are strewn across the floor of my bedroom. What must the fellow think of me? But I trust Watson and simply do not behave around him as I would any other - I simply forget myself in his presence. Did I ever behave in this manner before my exile?

When I come through to the sitting room, my companion has a brandy warming upon the mantelpiece for me while he sips at a drink of his own. He is not looking at all well, but he at least does not seem as morose as he did last night. Hum! I cannot help but wonder whether it is merely his desire to tend to me - and the sense of purpose that doing so presents to him when he does so - that has temporarily improved his mood. I shall humour him as much as my pride shall permit me to do.

"Where ever did you go to this morning?" my Boswell asks of me. "You left very early - did you actually get any sleep last night at all?"

I narrow my eyes against a building desire to sneeze, unwisely turning my gaze to the fire burning within the grate so that he cannot tell the reason for my temporary silence. This only stimulates my nose and sinuses further and I quickly silence two sternutations, successfully (I hope) disguising them by nodding. There is no need to worry my dear friend.

"Yes, I have had sufficient sleep," I assure the fellow. "In answer to your first question, I rose early so as to visit your practice."

His eyes widen in surprise. "My practice? Why the deuce would you want to go there?"

I shrug and sip at my brandy gratefully. "I thought that you might be worrying about it, so I decided that perhaps I should ensure that all was in order. I hope that you do not mind, but we both know how I would fret were I forced to abandon my practice - however necessary it might be at the time - and I wanted only to put your mind at rest if I could. Your neighbour is doing an admirable job and you have nothing to fret about. He sends his regards and hopes that you make a swift recovery, by the way."

Watson reaches across to touch my arm gently, his expressive face showing his gratitude. "That was very kind of you Holmes. Thank you."

"My pleasure," I respond with a quick twitch of my lips. After the fellow's sudden outburst last night, I know not quite how to behave and any smile that I give him is nervous at best.

He sighs and pats my arm before withdrawing his hand and slumping back in his chair. "My behaviour last night was inexcusable," he says after a moment. "Please forgive me. I was not thinking rationally - I was not..." he shakes his head and rubs a hand across his eyes. "I was not thinking of you at all."

"Well, why should you?" I ask of him. "It can hardly be said that I have given you any reason to. Besides, I am a brain without a heart - I have no feelings that you could hurt."

The fellow gazes at me for a long moment. "We both know that that is utter piffling nonsense Holmes. I shall thank you to never talk like that again."

"My apologies Watson," I mumble, whilst wondering what exactly I have said wrong on this occasion. "Do you wish to tell me what exactly I did last night that upset you so?"

He shakes his head and sneezes into the crook of his arm, clearly having been caught off guard and unable to snatch up his handkerchief in time. "It was not your doing. I was merely upset."

"Do you wish to discuss the matter?" I prompt him as gently as I can. "A wise doctor once told me that a problem shared is -"

"No," he interrupts me forcefully.

I shrug my shoulders and sip at my drink.

"My emotions are much too raw Holmes. I cannot... I would make an idiot of myself."

Oh Watson! I set aside my brandy glass and shake my head. "Grieving is horrible! My dear Watson, becoming upset under the circumstances is to be expected! Now, I should like to think that you do not have to hide your emotions from me. Am I no longer trustworthy?"

"Holmes, you simply do not wish to see me in such a state."

I crouch before his chair and take his hand in mine. Perhaps I should show him some of my heart, if I dare. "I wish to give you my support," I assure him firmly. "Whether I am comfortable or know quite what to do or not, I at least should like to remain at your side and... and to share your burden, my dear fellow - as you have shared mine on numerous occasions."

A slow smile of gratitude spreads across his face. "Thank you."

I shrug and run a hand through my damp hair. "I have suffered loss in my life - I at least understand how you feel. I only wish that I could be of more use to you."

Watson snorts and hastily pulls a handkerchief from up his sleeve. "You do more than you know," he assures me as he dabs at his nose with the cloth.

"I hope that I do help you in some way," I confess quietly as I study my friend's face. "I have longed to do nothing else ever since I heard the news. Had I been able, I would have returned to your side as fast as steam would allow."

"Thank you Holmes," he repeats before attempting to blow his nose quietly.

I squeeze his arm and return to my chair, still feeling at a loss. When I stayed with my grandmother in France she taught me a great deal about human psychology, seeming to know more about emotion than the entire English branch of my family combined. Perhaps being French made a difference - they understand passion, while the English are expected to ignore the whispers of the heart. How I wish that I had been a better student. If only I could turn to my grandmother now!