From Hades Lord of the Dead: I have places to be!

"Holmes."

Silence answered me. My friend remained buried in his cocoon, apparently ignorant of my presence, much less my question.

"Holmes, did you forget our plans?"

No answer. A low day would have provided a whining rant of all that was wrong—or at least a grumble to go away—while a frustrating case should have a line of smoke from his pipe. This lack of movement resembled nothing I knew.

"Holmes, answer me."

Except one. He did not even try to wave me away, and my heart sank. Not again. Not after so many weeks without. Uneven steps carried me loudly closer.

"Are you conscious?"

My tone clearly warned what would happen if he ignored this. He growled something uncomplimentary as the mound of blankets suddenly lurched and rolled on its side. He had not used the needle in the last couple of hours.

Which eased the fear but did nothing for the lesser hurt. He had promised to spend the afternoon with us, but we had waited at the restaurant for nearly thirty minutes before I had sent Mary home and come to check on him. I had thought us past the avoidance caused by my marriage.

"Do you intend to come at all?"

Still nothing. He may not be high, but he had apparently decided to spend the day on the settee instead of out with us. Whatever the source, I would not have the pleasure of an afternoon with my friend and my wife. A sigh escaped as I quietly left, head down. I would try again tomorrow.

I might try again for supper. I had thought we were making progress, thought Holmes had finally accepted that I did not have to choose between him and Mary. He knew he had a standing invitation to join us for supper, and more than once he had acted on that invitation by picking our lock. Had I said or done something last week to irritate him?

Possible, though a disagreement usually became an argument, not silence. I could not remember the last time anything but the needle had made him completely ignore me. Could he be ill?

The thought made me hesitate mid step, but another moment resumed my slow pace toward home. An illness that severe would have stolen his appetite and resulted in a comment from Mrs. Hudson. What about a lack of work?

No. Mrs. Hudson had mentioned several clients and Yarders knocking in recent days. He obviously did not have too much—he would not have been home were that the case—but he did not lack occupation, either.

So if he did not want for things to do, had not touched the cocaine, was not ill, and had not taken offense at something I or Mary had said, what could make him ignore me and abandon our plans?

I could think of nothing. I had somehow damaged the friendship I had worked so hard to repair, and I had no way to remedy the problem. I barely looked up when I reached my door.

"In the sitting room, John!"

Mary's voice carried down the hall, bright and happy in all the ways I could not match right now. I made no reply. I would have to tell her eventually, but for the moment, I simply hung my jacket, set my umbrella aside, and directed my steps toward the bedroom. If we had nowhere to go today, I saw no reason to stay in my formalwear.

"John?"

Unless she refused to let me avoid the topic. The query carried the same undertone my own had at the flat, but even a short reply to ease her concern still needed several seconds.

"I'll be there in a minute."

The slight rustling stilled, then quiet movements announced I had not hidden my disappointment as well as I would have wished. The chair squeaked before footsteps crossed the room to stand in the doorway.

I froze, struck by the wrongness of that sound. Mary did not walk like that. Mary's feet barely made any noise, the only sign of their presence the creak of the floor rather than the thump of her heel. That sounded like—

"I would suggest you leave your jacket on, Watson. The restaurant agreed to shift our reservation."

Disappointment changed to stunned disbelief as I spun. Holmes stood in the sitting room doorway, a smirk battling worry at my reaction. How had he—

"I was beginning to wonder if you had gotten yourself lost," he continued. "You do not normally need so long to walk here from Baker Street."

I normally did not pay more attention to my thoughts than my pace, but I did not answer. I could not answer. I could only stare at him. How had he gone from burying himself in the settee to occupying my sitting room before I made it home?

"I believe you will be interested in my most recent case." Truer concern flickered into view when I remained silent. "My client suspects her cousin of trafficking, but whether people, animals, or goods she is unsure. He frequents the Palace Hotel's restaurant, so I have taken a waitstaff job to gather information."

The Palace Hotel. That was less than a hundred yards from where we had planned to meet today, which meant he had seen us waiting for him and rushed home. Another moment let me voice the deduction.

"You lost track of the days."

He nodded, the apology he would never say evident in the lines tracing his mouth. "I hoped to remove my disguise before you followed, but you took a cab rather than walking. I cannot allow you to see that one yet."

So he had decided to wait for me to leave instead of simply telling me what had happened. This disguise must affect his speech in some way, but I would discuss that with him later. For the moment, I was far more interested in whether my other deduction was accurate. His frown finally escaped before I could form the words.

"Do you still…"

"Yes," I forced when the question trailed away. He did not need to finish that thought. Of course I wanted to resume our day, and shock finally dissipated to let a slow smile stretch my mouth. "Yes, I still want to spend the day on the Strand. And attend a show later," I added on a whim. "We could wander Hyde Park after we eat and try that new theater."

Worry drained from his expression and from his posture. "An excellent idea." Light footsteps whispered in the sitting room to make him turn. "Mrs.—I mean, Mary," he corrected at her scowl, "you mentioned an advertisement? It was not a Gilbert and Sullivan, was it?"

"Oh, no. It wasn't them." She slipped past him to take my arm, expertly hiding a wink in the process. Holmes despised Gilbert and Sullivan. "I don't recall the names, but John and I haven't seen them before…"

We led Holmes out the door as she weaved a description that turned a vaudeville opera into something closer to a classical musical. She would only hold his interest until we reached the theater, but the show we truly thought he would enjoy played less than half a mile away. I hid my amusement to listen to her descriptions—and his many questions. She might not string the tale far enough to reach the theater.

No matter. The deception still served as payback for missing our first reservation, and my own addition sent the discussion off in a completely new direction. I would take a laughing conversation over worrying silence any day.

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