Lestrade's Visit

Inspector Lestrade is as reliable - and punctual - as I remember him. All the same, I do feel some resentment when my Boswell (who had been convalescing on the settee with his watering eyes closed and a handkerchief covering his nose until the little man arrived) sits up with a bright smile, somewhat similar to the one with which he addressed me when he realised that I was alive.

I (somewhat brusquely, I must admit) gesture for Lestrade to sit down whilst feigning interest in his reason for his arrival - after all, I do know why he is here. However, he ignores me and hurries to take to Watson's side, urging him all the while to remain seated.

"Doctor Watson! Are you all right?" the irksome inspector asks as if I have not described my friend's condition to him at all. I watch with growing irritation as he takes Watson's hand and sits beside him on the settee. "Your neighbour told me that you were here, but I assumed that you were tending to Mr. Holmes - not that he has been caring for you."

I will not growl. I shall not give the irritating little man the satisfaction. How dare he!

Watson coughs into his handkerchief and gives a quiet groan. "Holmes has been... very supportive."

"Really?" Lestrade smirks at me. "I never would have thought that he was capable of it!"

I shove my hands into my trouser pockets so as to avoid giving any indication as to how tempted I am to wring the fellow's neck.

My Boswell closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly, the action urging me to check the clock (again) and calculate how much longer it is before he can take another headache powder.

"That is unfair Lestrade," my dear friend chides the imbecile beside him. "Holmes is very considerate - well, when he remembers."

"Thank you Watson." What a charitable fellow he is. Humph! Well, if they are going to band together against me I shall leave the doctor in the care of his new best friend and get on with arranging my newspaper clippings and amending my common-place books. Lestrade clearly considers himself to be the better qualified of the two of us and Watson would appear to be in agreement with him.

While I am working quietly, I hear Lestrade whisper in a conspiratorial manner to my friend of old. "Do you think I've upset him?"

"What? Oh, he shall soon calm down when he realises that we were joking," the doctor responds with a dreadfully unpleasant-sounding sniff. "Though I suppose that it was rather unreasonable of me - Holmes truly has been very solicitous in his manner toward me ever since his return from... well, ever since he came home."

I refrain from looking up from my work - it would never do for them to know that I am listening.

"He has hardly left my side since I became unwell," Watson adds quietly.

"You say that as if it were offensive!" Lestrade remarks with some surprise.

There is a long pause and I continue to pay close attention to my work as if I were completely oblivious to their discussion. If Watson truly needs room to breathe I shall remain in my bedroom tomorrow. I massage my forehead, which has not ceased to pain me since I awoke, privately wondering whether it would be terribly selfish of me to take one of the headache powders from our supply when my companion is suffering so horribly.

"It is not that," my Boswell groans. "I merely... I am unaccustomed to being tended in such a manner... the last time that anyone did, it was by... by Mary..."

I stiffen. Poor Watson! How could I have failed to realise or understand? What a dreadful friend I am!

"You can hardly blame Mr. Holmes for that Doctor."

"No. No, of course not - and I don't. I am truly grateful to Holmes - and deeply touched - I did not expect such support from him or anyone else. But I know not quite how I feel at present and... and..." he gives a somewhat shaky sigh. "Forgive me Inspector - you no doubt think me ridiculous."

"Not a bit of it!" Lestrade assures him emphatically. "I dread to think how I'd react if I lost my wife."

Watson's immediate reaction is a strangled, half-stifled sob. "I hope that you shall never find out."

I feel my throat constrict and swallow carefully. It is incredibly difficult for me to hear the suffering in my staunch biographer's tone, for I have always considered the fellow to be the stronger of the two of us - I could never go to war, as he has done, nor endure many of the things that he has. This battered, beaten Watson is not the man - the metaphorical anchor - that I knew before my exile and this situation terrifies me.

"Is there anything that I can do?"

I glance up in time to see my friend of old shake his head and pat the inspector's arm. "No, I don't think so. I suppose I just need time."

Lestrade nods and again takes his hand. "I'll drop by again to see you tomorrow, if you and Mr. Holmes have no objections."

How nice of him to remember me - this is, after all, my house!

"Thank you Inspector. I shall try to be -"

The Yarder cuts him off quickly. "You shan't have to try to be anything on my account Doctor Watson - you should never have to put on a special act around friends." That said, the little fellow approaches me and all but drags me from the room, out onto the landing outside.

"Lestrade! I must protest!" I fold my arms and suppress a shiver.

"You two really need to sit down and talk to each other - properly. Have you given him a chance to tell you how he feels, or anything?"

I shrug. "Watson has never been the sort to do that - if anything, I imagine that he writes such things down in his journal."

His eyes light up. "That's an idea! How about trying this: get some cheap paper and both of you sit together, write down all the things that are bothering you - if you have anything troubling you, that is - and then burn the paper when you're done. You never know, it might do the doctor some good - and I'm sure he'd give it a try if you're prepared to."

"It is certainly worth a try. Thank you."

He shrugs and scratches at his ear. "It's something I get my son to do, when he's upset about something - sometimes he gets so troubled that he has a job getting his words out, so I make him sit down in the corner, put what he feels on the paper and then he folds it up and gives it to me, to burn in the fire. He can usually talk to me or his mother after that."

"Ingenious," I congratulate him.

He shrugs again. "I am not sure about that, but it seems to work and that's the main thing."

I shall have to try it. At this moment, I shall be prepared to give anything a try if it might only help my Boswell - he certainly would appear to need more than mere medicine, for that seems to be doing little more than temporarily easing the worst of his symptoms.

"You do not mind my coming back tomorrow, do you?" the little fellow asks of me, as if he knows perfectly well that he has irritated me.

"Of course not!" I assure him quickly. "Your support is appreciated Lestrade - greatly appreciated. Forgive me, I am simply not myself today."

He frowns at me with a somewhat critical expression. "Are you all right? Those in the position of carer do tend to be forgotten somewhat and you do have to take care of yourself as well as the doctor."

I nod and wave aside his concern. "I am always all right! Until tomorrow Inspector."

"Until tomorrow then Mr. Holmes," he returns with a small smile. "I'll see myself out - you had best get back to Doctor Watson and your nice, warm fire."

I wait until he has hurried down the stairs before I lean against the balustrade beside me and run a hand over my eyes. I have barely stopped since Watson fell ill, had not exactly rested well even before that and I am now feeling quite done up. I would like nothing more but to curl up somewhere warm and quiet and sleep for an eternity.

Later. I shall sleep later.