Prompt: Why exactly did Holmes ask Watson along on the Drebber murder?

A/N: For those who have not seen, chapter 8 is now complete! And, once again, I find myself behind on the prompts! This one should have gone up much earlier, to tell the truth, but it just wasn't coming. I shall put up my answer to today's prompt as early as possible tomorrow.
I've known my answer to this prompt for quite a while--it's not very complicated--but my manner of writing it definitely took me by surprise. It's quite melancholy, and I think, possibly, just a tad clichéd? But I thrive on cliché, I'm afraid, and anyway, I was homesick for imagery and metaphor land, which I haven't gotten the chance to visit for far too long. Tell me what you think? #puppy eyes#
Just a note, FF has been smashing my words together again, so apologies if there are spaces missing (grrrr...).

The police inspector shook my hand. "Well done again, sir. You're making quite a name for yourself, here--are you sure you wouldn't consider joining the official force?"

I supressed my expression of disgust and politely shook my head. "I am quite happy to continue working privately. If you are in need of assistance in some other little case of yours, however, you may drop in on us at any time."

The man shrugged. "Ah, well. You know your business, I suppose, sir. If you're sure..."

"Entirely. Don't hesitate to ask if I can be of some further use to you in the future."

I allowed myself a small smile as he closed the door. Join the official force indeed.

I retreated back into my rooms and seized my pipe, searching idly for matches. Another case closed, another week or so of boredom, chemistry, and research into coal-tar derivitaves until another one happened my way. There had not been many so far, but the little inspector who had just left seemed to be catching on to the fact that I could be of some use to him in the future. I smirked to myself around my pipe. In many ways he reminded me of Lestrade. Heaven forbid that there should be two of him in law enforcement.

I had found, over the years, that I could not keep away from the crimes. I was constantly reading of them, constantly making connections and drawing conclusions. Mycroft had suggested, when I was still in school, that I work for the Yard, but of course I resisted. I was entirely unsuited to having imbicillic co-workers. It did not do to have incompetents underfoot during an investigation. In any case, I had no desire but to use my deductive skills--If I was the only person I needed--as I alwas have been--I would work alone.

I heaved a sigh, blowing a lone wisp of smoke into the air, where it hung for a moment before dissipating, as quickly as a fragment of a forgotten dream. That wasn't true now, was it? Working alone meant working without anyone else.

I was discussing the finer points of deduction with my still relatively new flatmate. "What ineffable twaddle!" he had exclaimed, upon reading my article which I had published in a lesser known magazine, and I proceeded to debate the subject with him, with more than a little private satisfaction. I had noticed that he was most curious about my profession. Curiosity is an admirable quality--it leads to questions, which lead to answers. However, he had not questioned me as to my profession, probably to avoid being rude. That is, of course, typical of Watson. He would be the last man on earth to risk offending someone, no matter what the provocation.

The smoke spiraled upwards, glowing softly in a gentle sunbeam before dissolving, leaving only emptiness in its wake. Lost in thought, I stared blankly into the vast nothingness, the vast nothingness staring blankly back.

"But do you mean to say," he said, "that without leaving your room you can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although they have seen every detail for themselves?"

"Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way."

He was incredulous--many men were--but genuinely intrigued, his curiosity dragging him further into the idea of simple deduction. He did not possess my singular gift, of course, but his interest was gratifying.

The days had been feeling longer of late--not by any astronomical or seasonal factor, but by a mental one. Time seemed to be stretched more thinly, somehow. There was more of it to go around--more to pass, more to save, more to spend, more to waste. It had an almost physical strain--I proceeded from sunrise to sunset with growing weariness, as time continued to spin onwards to its own eternal rhythm. Every little thing that I did seemed to take no time at all, leaving me with vast quantities for which I had no use.

"'Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.'"

He was rather astonished. But also, I could see, struck by the simplicity of the chain of reasoning, and proclaimed as much a moment later. It really was rather simple, as was everything once explained. Of course, he would think of Dupin and Lecoq--what literature has done to the science of deduction is most unspeakable. One cannot blame the fellow, really, for having had no prior experience with the true art of observation and deduction save what he has read, he cannot be expected to see them as the stand-offish incompetents that they are.

There was a soft rapping at the door, pulling me out of my reverie. I unenthusiastically pushed myself to my feet and strode across the room, my soft, almost impreceptible footsteps echoing in my mind through the emptiness of the room. I pulled the door open to find a young woman standing outside--she lived on limited means and made a living as a typist, and apparently had an issue which was troubling her, for her face was drawn and tight with worry. I stared down at my visitor, who seemed to be composing herself, before finally speaking.

"Are you Mr. Sigerson?"

He was no doubt thinking me unbearably concieted, after my unmerciful tirade against two literary heroes whom he had apparently held in high esteem. As I continued to complain, rather petulantly, I suppose, that there were no more crimes and criminals, I could see annoyance written on his face, but tolerance, as well. A most long-suffering soul, he was. I probably owed it to him to be more agreeable in the future.

He endeavoured to change the subject, then--he pointed out a fellow on the street, a retired sergeant of the marines, and wondered casually what he was looking for. My offhand mannar of tossing out his profession seemed to irritate my fellow lodger--probably he thought I was merely showing off, attempting to prove my point about deduction to him. My intent was to give a demonstration of the effect which can be produced by rapid deduction--although there was more than a slight element of showing off in my observation, I admit. It was enjoyable to have a fresh mind to encounter my particular skill. I was especially pleased when the man, as it happened, proved to be looking for us, and the glimpse I caught of Watson's expression--a combination of shock and admiration--was a pleasant bonus, though I never would have admitted as such.

I invited her inside, though I had little idea what she could possibly want with me. "My brother is the police inspector," she explained, once she was inside. "He's told me of your remarkable gifts--I know you have helped the police force on occasion, but I was wondering--do you do private cases?"

"I am a researcher," I said coldly, keeping with my main persona. "Perhaps the police force has found my assistance helpful in the past, but--"

"It's just that there's been a strange incident, and I don't know what to make of it," she said, her eyes wide.

"Very well," I sighed, and sat down. "Tell us what is troubling you."

The letter contained news of a murder--Gregson was in over his head, as always, and that both he and Lestrade were on the case was probably more of a hindrance than a help--they would be spending their energy on their petty rivalry, instead of concentrating on the case. Then again, it might motivate them both to new lengths. I was in half a mind not to go at all, in truth--there would be nothing in it for me, when all's said and done, and I found myself in one of my least motivated states as I read the plea for assistance. Watson, however, was in another mind. "Surely there is not a moment to lose," he said, and while I was not entirely inclined to agree with him I appreciated his enthusiasm for the case.

He was becoming quite interested in the science of deduction, I could see--not merely being dazzled by my deductions, as so many were, but genuinely appreciative of my train of thought, my methods, in determining such facts about an individual through observation of certain details. I found it quite gratifying to have such an audience, with an intelligent curiosity as to the processes behind the abilities. Perhaps we could both benefit from further demonstration.

"Get your hat."

"You wish me to come?"

"If you have nothing better to do."

The woman's narrative was not intriguing, and she herself seemed to be among the most unobservant and foolish of women. She described her position, and in some detail a man who had been seen hanging about her workplace, wearing tinted glasses and a wide-brimmed hat. A suspicious looking character, she said. I refrained from pointing out that anyone who took such pains to hide their face would come across as a "suspicious-looking character," and listened to her story. The man had stopped coming three days ago, and she has not seen him since. "And I did not want to ask my brother about it, in case he thought I was making too much of a trifle."

"And the man has not appeared since that day?"

"No, he hasn't, and I'm most curious--do you suppose you could come to have a look around?"

"I sincerely doubt that we would gain anything by accompanying you."

Her brow furrowed. "Why do you keep refering to yourself in the plural?"

The matter was not the simple one I had expected, much to my satisfaction. I spent a good deal of time looking over the room--there was much to be found on our murderer, and Lestrade's discovery of the word "RACHE" written on the wall (and of course his subsequent deductions on the woman Rachel) added extra flavour to an already most singular occurance. I was inclined to be rather sarcastic in dealing with Gregson and Lestrade, for with both on the case, and each so obviously vying for the upper hand, it was difficult to see how they'd managed to get anything done at all. I was pleased to see Watson's continued interest in the case and in my methods, for he professed amazement at my deductions made from the room. Most of them had been entirely elementary, but it added new flavour to the business to have one's art so obviously appreciated. I also found him quite articulate in summing up the particulars of the case, which had many points that remained quite obscure. I ran over the details of the case with him, turning the information over in my own mind as I did so, and while I was fairly certain of the course of events which had taken place, I was infinitely curious as to the little portions of the business which were not revealed in my examination of the room.

The doctor's admiration of my abilities did not wane, as I was privately expecting, but seemed to grow, much to my delight. The more he saw of my work the more intrigued he was, and I found that quality most agreeable.

"The man you were seeing was your fiance," I said blandly, ignoring her question. "He's rather a jealous man, is he not? A jealous man who has never met your cousin. I would suggest that you introduce them before this misunderstanding runs away with you."

I heaved a sigh of relief as I closed the door behind her. Of all the shows of stupidity that the human race had put on, she was among the worst. Her overly-talkative nature had no doubt gotten her into trouble before. One could only hope that she would learn one of these days.

I returned to my pipe in a sour mood.

Watson's interest in my cases continued, well beyond the Drebber murder. His interest was enough for him to publish an account of the case--I really could not congratulate him upon it, unfortunately, and said as much, but I was privately pleased with his account as well--it was interesting for me to see in his writing what he thought of my deductions. I asked for his assistance on several other cases, and found to my delight that he acted marvelously as a companion--a sounding board for when I needed a sounding board, silent company for when I was deep in thought, lost to the world. It became habit for me to incluce him in my adventures, and he, for his part, was eager to be of assistance in any way he could. Certainly his skills as a marksman proved invaluable several times on some of the more dangerous cases, and his steadfast personality and common sense served to keep me grounded when I needed it. Over time acquaintances became friends, and friendship only strengthened, until he was so much a part of my life I could hardly remember a time without him.

Another day would come tomorrow, much like this one. If only I could have some news, some word from London, that I could return. I missed London, more than I ever thought I would. I had lived many places over the last three years, but Baker Street was my home.

I closed my eyes and allowed myself to confess, in the very furthest depths of my soul, what I had been trying with varying degrees of difficulty to forget: I truly, painfully, undoubtedly, missed my Watson.

I was not sure what the mystery held in store for me, that day, well after our Study in Scarlet had taken place, but if Watson was there it would be worth taking, for the sake of working with him again. I had missed his company sorely, though I never would have admitted it. His marriage and professional duties had kept him from my side for some time, and I was unspeakably glad to see him in our once shared rooms again. Our client arrived, with all his expensive finery--"There's money in this case, Watson, if there's nothing else."

I sat alone, an empty man in his empty world, but for the wisps of smoke rising steadily upwards, fleeting, distant, and, as always, insbustantial.

"I think that I had better leave, Holmes," he said, standing; he felt he should be intruding, but he could not have been more wrong.

"Not a bit of it, Doctor!" I cried, motioning for him to resume his seat, "stay where you are."

Another time, in another life, I would have allowed my thoughts to occupy me, or cocaine to sustain me--but it could never be enough.

I smiled fondly at his perplexed (but, I think, gratified) expression.

The only sound was my thoughts, forever ringing and echoing through the vast, boundless cavern of my lonliness.

"I am lost without my Boswell."

I am lost...