Apologies for the delay... again.

The wind blew staunchly against my coat as I began the long trek towards Oxford. For Holmes to have abandoned me like that was just the last straw. I was going to get my bags from Mycroft, who hopefully hadn't done as much "leg work" as his brother believed him capable of doing, spend the night at an inn, and then catch the train to King's Cross in the morning. Hopefully Holmes would be over whatever fit of temper he was having by the time he returned to London.

I was just trying to decide whether I should catch the 6:34 or the 7:55 when a cab began to head towards me. I veered off the road into the grass to let it pass, only to have the cab stop right next to me.

"Dr. Watson!" said a familiar voice. I looked up to see Mycroft looking at me with some confusion. "What the devil are you doing out here all alone? Where's Sherlock?"

"He left," I said abruptly. "I haven't the faintest idea where he might be."

I could see a flicker of terror flash across Mycroft's face. "Get in," he ordered without any more explanation. He opened the cab door and I obliged. Once I got inside, I noticed that both Holmes' and my luggage had been piled into the car. Mycroft himself held my brown suitcase.

"Where did you last see him?" Mycroft asked as soon as I was seated.

"At High Wycombe Station. We had just missed the last train."

"When?"

"About half an hour ago."

Mycroft cursed under his breath. "He could be anywhere," he murmured under his breath, his hands clenching and unclenching the handle of my suitcase. "But… there's a chance." He tapped his cane against the roof of the cab and told the cabbie to head towards St. Bartholomew's Chapel. "An extra shilling if you can get there within ten minutes," Mycroft added.

"Mycroft, what the devil is going on?" I asked as soon as he'd settled himself once more. "Is Holmes in danger?"

"I should hope not."

"Yet there's the possibility that he is?"

Mycroft looked at me warily then sighed. "I suppose it was bound to come out sooner or later," he murmured. He situated himself among the sea of luggage so that he was half-facing me. "Have you ever wondered?" he asked. "What exactly it is that causes my little brother's 'black moods'?"

"I had assumed that it was just another of Holmes' peculiarities," I replied, wondering where this was going.

Mycroft gave a half-hearted smile. "It is in part. Or rather, I hope it is."

"Are you implying," I said, starting to catch up. "That Holmes is mad?"

Mycroft looked down at his shoes and gripped the handle of his cane. "Doctor," he said after a few moments. "Your bedside manner is becoming increasingly poor, if not downright intolerable." A flicker of humor flashed through his eyes. "Surely you know better than to wave about such words as 'madness' as though they were the Evening Times? No, no, no. It does not become men of science to leap to such conclusions or such laced words without the proper facts."

I smiled wanly. "That's just the sort of thing Holmes would say," I remarked.

Mycroft snorted. "Quite right," he murmured. He shifted his large bulk in the cab uncomfortably. "Let us hope that he shall be the next one to say it."

Oh dear. Where has Holmes gone off to?

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