Watson lifts a coal with the tongs and deftly lights his pipe. His movements are like a well-remembered dance, Holmes thinks, staring into the fire. He does not need to look to know the way that Watson will tilt his head, tap tobacco onto the mantle, then look up to him for approval, like a puppy or a small boy.
It is beginning to come clear to him that he had done right in calling him here. He too had had his doubts, but now he can see that nothing really has changed.
Kindling can be consumed. Loyalty cannot.