Watson is well behaved while Trevor and I eat (thank goodness), but very quiet. He gives me the impression - however much I may try to dismiss it - that he is sulking. It is rather a cheek, if sulking he is, given his recent behaviour; never-the-less, I shall let him be for now and have a chat with him privately, later.

"Are you OK, Doctor Watson?" Trevor asks, when our plates have been taken away and we are awaiting the arrival of strawberries, cream and scones - along with a second large pot of tea. "You're very quiet and I've noticed that you've been coughing and sneezing rather a lot."

The robot's reaction is to gaze rather frostily back at our new acquaintance and to set his shoulders in what I perceive to be a threatening manner.

"Watson," I touch his arm in the hope that I might placate him. "That you are not yourself is plain to see. Trevor was only voicing the question that I have not yet asked: what the deuce ails you?"

He shrugs his shoulders and refuses to meet my gaze. I note that his face is flushed - ha! Now he is the one that is embarrassed and it serves him right!

"Are you feeling hot?" Trevor now asks.

The compudroid grumbles something that I cannot hear above the music and chatter going on around us but does not make a reply.

"Watson, would you prefer to discuss this when we are back aboard the boat?" I enquire, realising that I should not wish to discuss my own health in a room filled with strangers, myself.

He meets my gaze with a thunderous expression. "I would prefer not to discuss it at all, if you do not mind."

Does this mean that he is unwell? That might explain his strange behaviour - at least in part. "My dear chap, as your friend, I need to know if there is something wrong. Your behaviour has been odd and I am concerned."

Trevor stands. "I think I'll go to the loo. Will you excuse me?"

Does he have to tell us why he should like to be excused? "Yes, of course, Trevor."

Watson waits until he is gone and then frowns at me, looking hurt. "I did try to tell you that I had a tickling in the throat - you did not believe me."

"Forgive me, old chap, but that explanation made little sense to me. You certainly cannot catch cold - and a good thing it is, too; summer colds can be particularly unpleasant - were it at all possible, you would most assuredly have contracted the miserable influenza that managed to so knock me for six."

He shrugs. "I know that, Holmes. I cannot explain it - I do not try to explain it."

"Would you like to go home?"

"No. Thank you. I can see that you are enjoying yourself. I shall be all right."

I pat his arm. "Let me know, should you feel worse. Perhaps you merely need a service - you have not had one since you came to live with me at Baker Street, aside from the occasional repair."

He fidgets and turns his gaze to his hands. "At the risk of sounding ridiculous, I do not relish the thought of having strangers looking at my circuits or programs. They might change something that makes me... me."

"I shall accompany you, if you would like."

"Very well. I shall go the moment that we return to London, if you want me to, but I would rather not discuss my inner workings with your acquaintance."

What cheek! "Yes, well, perhaps now you understand how I feel."

"Really, Holmes! That is entirely different - I would discuss my health with a bloody engineer! You, however, will not even discuss your health or requirements with a doctor, let alone a concerned friend."

I glare coldly at him. "I was always taught that it is not polite to complain and that one is not to discuss such things with all and sundry, that is all. Particularly not..." I wave a hand in the vague direction of the establishment's provided facilities. "Certain workings of the body."

"Sorry, Holmes."

I should damned well hope so!

"I simply cannot understand why you would try to ignore a discomfort until it becomes unbearable," says he. "What good does it do? Besides, you did tell me that the consequences can be terribly messy, during a moment of panic - hardly a risk that I would expect you to want to take, what with your level of cleanliness."

"Would you please at least keep your voice down?" I growl at him. "Have you no concept of good manners at all?"

He shrugs. "I am only trying to understand you."

It is my turn to shrug, for how can I explain to him that I have been taught to control myself from an early age, in a manner which would seem barbaric in this day and age? How can I make him understand that I was expected to put up with the discomfort and to simply concentrate my mind upon something else entirely - to simply not think about it - and to wait until I was excused? I am not supposed - was never expected - to be unable to do so, at my current age, when I was trained to do so as a young child.

I do at least remind him (very quietly) that the 'moment of panic' to which he was kind enough to refer occurred when I was dreadfully unwell and he had failed to understand the urgency of the situation. I would not usually have disclosed such information and would prefer not to be reminded of it - let alone forced to discuss it - now, or at any other time. He apologises with a huff and falls silent again.

Trevor returns the moment that the tea, strawberries and scones (with cream and jam, naturally) arrive. Clearly, he only made himself scarce in order to permit Watson and I a moment alone to talk privately - most likely, this was his reason for telling us where he was supposedly going. I must thank him - later. Preferably after Watson has gone off to charge, when the two of will be able to talk without upsetting him.

"Sorry about that," our friend says quietly, upon resuming his seat. "These strawberries look delicious, don't they? I wonder if they're locally grown."

The two of us set to and soon polish off the cream tea. It is delicious!

"Are those scones as good as mine, Holmes?" our robotic friend enquires.

I chuckle as I wipe cream from my fingers. "Almost, dear boy. Almost."

He smiles back at me cheerfully. Perhaps he is feeling better, now. Or, perhaps, he was feeling left out and attention-seeking - is that possible? It might explain why the mention of a service being overdue was enough to persuade him to desist.

As we humans are squabbling over the bill (our friend is insisting that he should pay, while I would like to at least pay for some of the meal), Trevor's phone chimes.

"Oh!" he gasps, upon reading the message. "The butler's asking if we're on our way back, yet. He says it looks as if a storm's blowing in from the coast - we really ought to get back. Here, take the keys and get aboard 'Swallows' - I'll be right behind you."

Watson insists that I get aboard and turn the heating on, for the sky has indeed clouded over and the chill breeze is whipping up into a fierce wind. He says that he shall cast off, as he will not become chilled should he be caught in the rain.

"Do not cast off without Trevor," I warn him. "Or else I shall have Lestrade take you back to London forthwith."

He stares at me. "I am hurt that you would think that I am capable of even contemplating such a thing, Holmes."

What with the behaviour that I have witnessed in him today, I would not put it past him. But I shall do as he suggests and await the return of Trevor in the warm.

By the time Trevor has joined Watson, the rain has begun to fall. Never-the-less, he still insists upon assisting our friend in casting off and stowing the ropes. Apparently, he feels that it should always be a two man job.

While I have been awaiting the return of my friends, I have indeed found out how to turn the heating on. I have also removed the rugs from the bedrooms and placed them on the settee.

Trevor comes inside first and hastily removes his coat before taking to the wheel. "Thanks, Mr. Holmes. Could you hang this in the shower room, while I make sure we don't drift? Thanks. Do you think Doctor Watson'll mind, if I drive?"

Usually, Watson would not. However, today he is not himself. I advise Trevor to ask him. "Where is Watson?"

"Trying to shake off the worst of the water, before he comes in. He's under the awning, at the back door. Not to sound rude, but when did he last have his fans checked?"

I have no idea and say so. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, because I was thinking that he might feel as though he needs to cough or sneeze if he felt that he had something restricting his airflow - he thinks and feels like a human, after all. Perhaps he has a clogged fan. It might explain his flushed cheeks, as well - even in the rain, he looked hot."

Why have I failed to notice? Poor Watson! Have I truly been so neglectful? "To be honest, his body is usually hidden beneath his coat. I suppose that he feels naked without it."

He nods. "Yes, I can understand that."

"I am not even sure that I know where his fans are located," I confess, feeling that I have let him down.

Watson is still dripping when he steps inside. "I apologise about the wet carpet, Mr. Trevor. Huh."

"It's OK, Watson. Not your fault. My coat and trousers are soaked, too. The robots'll have to give the boat a good clean, that's all."

"Huh. I suppose so."

The strange sounds that I took to be snorts would indeed appear to indicate something else entirely. They are becoming more frequent, for one thing.

"Watson, do sit down," I urge him.

"But I am wet!"

"So am I," Trevor retorts. "This is my boat! If it's OK for me to get water everywhere, I'm hardly going to complain if you do. Mr. Holmes is right - you should sit down."

He positions one of the rugs upon the settee to take the worst of the water first, but he does sit down. As I take a seat beside him, I notice that his clickings and whirrings appear to sound louder than usual.

"Remove your coat," I instruct him. "I shall hang it up in the shower room, with Trevor's."

He argues at first, but complies when I remind him that it is the item of clothing that is doing the majority of the dripping.

Now, somehow, I have to get him to permit me to have a look at him.

"Holmes," Victor calls, pulling me from my reverie. "How close am I to the bank? This storm definitely has come inland from the sea - it's pushing the tide with it."

I turn to take a look, kneeling on the settee and gripping its back with my hands. Only now, I notice that we are rolling considerably more than we had been and wish that I had not had quite so much lunch. Best not think about it; what is our position?

"We are all right, on this side, as long as we drift no further," I respond. "The boat is just brushing the reeds furthest from the bank."

"Then we need to be further out. That means fighting the current. Hold on."

I tighten my grip on the settee and slam my eyes shut. This journey is not as enjoyable as the previous had been.

"There," Trevor breathes after a long moment. "That's better. Hopefully, we won't meet any holidaymakers coming the other way - they won't be nearly as experienced and are likely to weave with the currents. Are you both all right?"

I force myself to swallow and draw a deep breath. "Yes."

"Watson, there's some chamomile tea in the cupboard above the kettle," our friend announces. "There might be a packet of ginger teabags, as well. Do you think you could make Mr. Holmes something?"

I touch the compudroid's arm and stand carefully, trying not to permit my legs to tremble. If Watson is unwell, I should prefer that he rest. "I shall do it. Would you like anything, Trevor?"

"Not while I'm driving, thanks. We'll be home, soon."

There is something soothing and familiar about making tea. Watson often does it, but I have had to fend for myself much more often in this era than I did in my own (and Watson has coached me in some of the simpler things - how to make an omelette, for example, or a hot drink. My Boswell would no doubt be surprised at how well I can manage - I could not even make toast, in our day!).

The ginger tea certainly does help and I decide to stand beside Trevor, watching his progress. "How much further?" I enquire, watching the waving reeds and willows as 'Swallows' battles past them.

"At this rate, another fifteen to twenty minutes. The currents are strong and this wind doesn't help either; if we were going downriver, we'd be back by now."

"Is there anything that I can do?"

"Not at the moment, but if you and Doctor Watson could toss the ropes to the robots, once we're inside the boathouse, that'd be a huge help."

I nod and pat his shoulder.

"I've been out in storms worse than this," he assures me. "We'll be OK. Just be glad we aren't nearer the coast."

I think he means to say that I should keep my chin up. He is right; I myself have experienced a storm or two at sea and they were indeed much worse than this. However, this boat is smaller and I can feel every wave - I suppose that I should be glad that they are no bigger.