I sat there waiting for half the night, my cheek against the wing of his armchair. The door woke me, screeching open and shut. I heard him curse, then the familiar sounds of his hat and coat on their pegs. He entered in his shirt sleeves, summarily shedding his jacket. "Good evening, Watson," he said vaguely, without looking me in the eye. He gave a half-hearted glance to the cocaine bottle before disappearing into his room. Oddly enough for Holmes, he looked genuinely tired.
Suddenly, I realized that on his account I had been up for nearly forty-eight hours together.