"Is there something wrong, Holmes?"

We had been sitting in silence for a good while after the conclusion of the somewhat ridiculous affair of the Amateur Mendicant Society. I had tried to immerse myself in a book, but could not keep my mind on it, and when I looked up Holmes was staring into the fire with a troubled expression on his face. At my question, however, his mask slipped back on. "Nothing, Watson."

"Come now, Holmes. I know you better than that. What's on your mind?"

My friend hesitated, then frowned into the fire again. "What could possibly make people go that mad, Watson?"

"You mean mad enough to think that stealing from people was a help to society?"

"Yes, that. And to search for new life by begging. To trust characters like Greene and White and Black, who to me simply reeked of treachery. It just seems so unthinkable to trust them, but those people we spoke with swore that they were changed. How is that possible?"

I was surprised at this--it was not Holmes' habit to dwell on cases once they'd been completed. However, I could tell that this point had been bothering him. "Greene, White and Black were excellent judges of character, Holmes," I said, reciting the explaination I had come up with for myself earlier. "They sought out those who were struggling daily to earn enough to keep their homes and continue to live, and targeted the ones who were alone. When someone lives like that for long enough, sometimes it makes them so desperate for meaning that they turn to the first sign of help, even if it comes from such a source. The three of them earned enough loyalty from some of the members that they were able to run the society."

Holmes nodded. "An overly elaborate plot to commit some simple burglaries. Though I suppose it's helpful to have your underlings do your dirty work for you."

"Indeed. Still, they went to such trouble."

We sat in silence a few minute more, Holmes still watching the fire intently. "How does it happen, though?" he asked, finally. "How is it that people become so very desperate?"

"I know what you mean, Holmes. I sometimes wonder if it's not possible for that to happen to anyone, no matter what the circumstances--if they become lonely enough, or suddenly desperately want their life to mean something."

"I should hope not. It was no fault of theirs, really; one cannot help the misfortune one finds one's self in sometimes."

"Indeed. Or simply a desperate need for something more." I frowned. "I only hope that I never find myself in a similar situation."

Holmes snorted. "Watson, that will never happen to you."

"You can't be sure of that." I was a retired army surgeon, again without a practice, and a widower to boot, I thought, as I mulled over the case. I did not feel myself becoming desperate for a new start, but it was a depressing realization.

"Watson, that will never happen to you, because I give you my word of honour that as long as I am alive I will always be there to talk you back to your senses, or beat them back into you if necessary. I anticipate requiring your company for my cases for a long time to come; I have no intention of losing you to such delusions anytime soon."

He said it offhandedly, as though it was another simple fact that he happened to mention in passing, but the declaration made another important point of the case sink in.

"That's true," I said quietly. "The only people who joined the society were alone."

And for as long as we both lived, neither of us would be alone.

A/N: #tries desperately not to drown in sea of fluff# The next chapter is a short author's note which was a bit too long to put at the end here--if you care for such things, read on! #clambers into fluff boat and sails away on fluff sea#