"Watson, I've never once asked you to stop your writing."
He didn't meet my eye. "You've expressed your displeasure often enough."
"That hasn't stopped you before. But clearly you do not wish to publish any more of our cases, for a reason you wish to keep from the public. Why?"
Watson sighed. "I can't write up cases any more. I've tried and I . . . just . . . can't."
"You've kept notes on our recent cases."
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because they're notes for recent cases!" He sighed again. "I've never been able to really write while we were working."
I blinked. "But those Strand pieces –"
"Written during my marriage."
"The Agra treasure case – "
"Likewise."
"The Jefferson Hope case, then!"
Watson grimaced. "I wrote it while recovering. It took me years to work up the nerve to publish it."
I considered. When Watson wrote up our cases, it was under circumstances when we were separated. Perhaps . . . writing was his way of recalling his happiest moments – with me and embroiled in matters of danger and intrigue.
"Well," I suggested, "until we retire, I could continue to shoulder the blame."