Title: 17 New Steps

Summary: In which Watson purchases a house.

A/N: Hello! Haven't written anything for "Scribbles" in forever and a day. Thought it was about time I fixed that (watching the 2002 BBC adaptation of The Hound of the Baskervilles helped kick-start the Holmes muse. Seriously, stop whatever you're doing and go watch it because Ian Hart is a wonderfully BAMF Watson. Highly entertaining. Gooooo watch. You deserve it! :)

My most faithful and long-suffering of readers,

Would it be impertinent of me if I claimed your acquaintance after so many years? I do hope not. Certainly through the circulation of these writings you know far more of me—my thoughts, my recollections, my trails and my triumphs—than I know of you, and yet I am optimistic that we may surmount this admittedly vast disparity. Surely then, the work in this relationship lies with me and I am willing to reawaken an ex-soldier's instinct to fight. I do not know your name, nor your face, nor even if you sneer or smile at these words. Frankly, I do not care. I am now too old to bypass happiness when it comes my way and I find happiness in considering you a friend.

"Why so maudlin, Dr. Watson?" you may ask. "Why all this talk of friendship?" In short, dear reader, it is because I bought a house. I bought a house with great enthusiasm but very little consideration.

And it is friendship's fault.

Have I ever told you of Dr. Ryan Summerset? A boisterous yet gentle man, the depth of his kindness is perhaps only exceeded by the size of his waist. He had completed his studies at Bart's right as I was beginning mine so we had little contact in our youth, but he never strayed far from his beloved London and when I moved into 221b I had the good fortune of encountering him once again. Since then we have met many times, as men of similar tastes are wont to do, though always in shops far from Baker Street. For you see, Summerset is a specialist in sexual maladies—particularly of the psychological variety—and I wished to keep his progressive views as far from Holmes's cynicism as possible. It really is best for all parties involved.

So it was that last week Holmes was engaging in his bi-monthly practice: traipsing the streets with eyes closed and a cane in hand to, as he puts it, "familiarize myself with London's ever changing landscape. Sight, dear Watson, is a sense that I am privileged to have, but it is not one I wish to rely on entirely. Broaden your methods of observation!"

Off he went and as I had no desire to spend my day imagining Holmes mistakenly walking in front of a cab I sent a telegram to Summerset on the off chance that he could meet for lunch. Surprisingly he could and at half past the hour I rang round his club.

Summerset was just as jolly as when we'd last met, though perhaps a bit larger.

"Watson, Watson!" he cried, voice echoing up the high ceilings. "You cannot imagine how delighted I was to hear from you. Excellent timing, my man. If you hadn't written then I would even now be dining with my niece."

"I hope I haven't kept you from a family engagement," I said, allowing my coat to be taken. The wind had turned the day bitter and I attempted to recall whether Holmes had dressed properly for his excursion. I could not, and therefore pushed the worry to the back of my mind. As well as I was able to, that is.

"On the contrary, Watson." He guided me to a table. "I must thank you for allowing me to dodge this particular reunion. Can't say I'm terribly fond of my niece. Dreadful child." All this was said with an enormous grin and cheeks warming red from the fire.

"Well then, it seems there is little for me to do but to accept your gratitude." I said with a smile.

We settled ourselves with many a sigh, the most mournful coming from my friend's chair. Despite the enjoyment of seeing one another again little was said until we had obtained and made decent headway into our lunch. The hearty soup of my choosing did much to warm the blood and once again I found myself thinking of Holmes out in the cold, no doubt far from anything halfway as satisfying. I scowled, I shook my head, I scowled again. It can be quite the frustration, always having someone occupying your thoughts, especially when you have present company that you wish to focus on. Summerset's profession gave him an eye for strong emotion so it did not surprise me when he set down his spoon and turned a knowing look my way.

"Come now, Watson," he said. "We have food and drink, our health and—I hope—our happiness. Both of us are men who have seen far too much of this world, yet I like to think that we've come through with our dignity intact." I raised my glass to that pronouncement. "What then do you have to sigh over? Patients raising your hackles?"

"Oh, one could say that," I murmured. Rolling my eyes to the heavens I reached to give Summerset's arm a companionable squeeze. "I do apologize for my appalling manners. Truly, especially considering that it was I who invited you to dine. It's Holmes."

"Ah! London's logician and the world's only consulting detective. What is appalling, Watson, is that I have been in close proximity to such genius for nigh two decades and you have not once introduced us." Summerset's words were tempered with a wink though. He knew as well as I that such a meeting would be explosive. Entertaining perhaps, but not worth the fallout. Suddenly though, my friend's face drew down with a gravity I had rarely seen. "Don't tell me he's again taken up…" Summerset trailed off, eyes flitting significantly to his left arm.

"No, no," I reassured. "I have had great success in… waning him of that." Indeed, the tale that I came to term "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot" went a long way towards assisting me in this endeavor. I will admit freely, dear reader, that the stories you receive are often heavily edited and this one was no exception. All I can truly say is that witnessing others under the thrall of a powerful hallucinogenic had more of an impact on Holmes than all my years of medical lecturing. Though I like to think that my patience still played its role. Holmes at least appears to abstain now more for my peace of mind than any concern for his own body.

I told Summerset as much, in words appropriate for the venue of course. He nodded, and that familiar smile came creeping back.

"Glad to hear it, Watson. Very glad."

"Indeed. It has been a… pleasant change." Waving my hand I recalled the original inquiry. "But that is not what you wished to know. Really, my worries now are miniscule in comparison. Holmes sometimes takes to walking the streets as a blind man"—I was interrupted by Summerset's snort—"and today is simply one of those days. I find that my mind becomes preoccupied when he is out in such a… condition."

"And no wonder." Both our gazes strayed to the large window beside us where the wind continued to howl. The clouds gathering in the distance spoke clearly of rain and I winced.

"He will come back sick," I prophesized, shaking my head. "You may count upon it. Mrs. Hudson will be beside herself and I shall be in charge of not only soothing her nerves but also taking care of the world's worst patient!"

"You sound quite bitter, my friend." Summerset said. I winced again, conscious that, indeed, my voice had been raised in agitation. I moved to apologize, but he only smiled kindly my way.

"You are a saint among men, Watson," he said and I will admit freely that I blushed like a school girl. "You need not explain it to me. It's clear that your anger comes from a place of great concern and really, anyone would rave at living with the great Sherlock Holmes. Few, however, would do so out of concern for him, rather than their own grievances." My blush deepened. "Have you considered perhaps… simply telling him? That these actions of his do little for your own nerves?"

"And make me a hypocrite?" I laughed softly. "Indeed, Summerset, more often than not I am by his side during such insanity! But yes, to answer your question I have indeed told him. More than once. Such admittances result in one of two scenarios:" Playfully, I held up two fingers, wagging them exaggeratedly. "Either I am given a thorough lecture on the absolute necessity this action has on the continued training of a consulting detective. Quite, quite, important, I assure you." Summerset hid a laugh behind his napkin. "Or, in his rare moments, Holmes provides reassurances of his own. He informs me that there will be no more need for such adventuresome experiments once he retires."

"Retires!" Summerset threw his napkin to the table, a comical look of surprise upon his face. "Why, I hardly believe it. Sherlock Holmes considering retirement? Never! London would fall."

"Oh, I hardly believe it myself sometimes, especially on days such as today. Though I assure you, he's been considering it quite seriously." More sedately I set my own napkin down, face pensive. "In fact, he has been speaking of it far more frequently lately and his words hold a gravitas I have not heard before. Holmes has always maintained that he is a brain, Summerset, a great brain and everything else is mere transport, but even he cannot deny that it becomes harder to chase down a criminal half our age, or disarm one with a firmer right hook than the ones we currently possess. We are not the young men we once were and he is no good to the public dead." I sighed, looking again to the outside world. A steady drizzle had begun to fall. "And yet, he still insists upon these… exercises."

"Perhaps some encouragement then. Support." Summerset said. "It can be difficult to give up what one has become so accustomed to. Holmes may need a… nudge."

"He wants to raise bees," I said dryly. "What? Do you expect me to purchase him a hive?"

To my surprise though Summerset's face lit up. He smacked our table with a meaty palm, causing numerous other diners to judge us severely.

"I don't know about hives, Watson." He whispered, in deference to the glares we were receiving. "But one doesn't go about keeping bees in London!"

"Certainly not." I was thoroughly confused as to what my friend was getting at though he, at least, seemed pleased.

"Donald Rutgers," he said, with the tone of a judge pronouncing his sentence. "He's a patient of mine, Watson," and at my appalled look Summerset backpedaled. "No, no, dear boy, I don't intent to spill secrets. I am a doctor of what many fools consider to be a highly questionable specialty, though my ethics as a doctor are unquestionable." I quelled under his rather sever look. "No, this is entirely outside of our doctor, patient relationship. Rutgers approached me last week purely in the name of business. You see, he has a small cottage in the Sussex Downs, inherited from his father, and he is eager to sell it off. Nothing wrong with the place you understand, there are simply many reasons why a young man would wish to quickly and quietly come into a bit of money." I nodded, though I could not help but wonder if the desire for more funds didn't relate to his reasons for seeing Summerset. My friend raised a brow at the heat rising in my cheeks, but continued regardless. "It's really as simple as that, Watson. Rutgers had hoped that, given my contacts, I could spread the word. Perhaps speed up a potential purchase. He's beyond ready to have the house out of his hands."

"That's very kind of you," I said carefully. "Though I fail to see what it has to do with Holmes and me."

"Watson." Summerset leaned forward, brazenly gripping my hands. "Wouldn't the Sussex Downs be a marvelous place to raise bees?"

Reader, I do not know what came over me.

The only defense I can scrounge up is… what? I truly don't know. Senility? Foolishness? The fossilized remnants of my youth? Perhaps it was simply that ever pervasive desire to surprise Holmes. As I've said. I do not know. All I do know is that I met Summerset for lunch and I returned to Baker Street some nine hours later, carrying with me a deed.

You can guess, observant as you are, what the deed was to.

Honestly, the ease with which I purchased the cottage is perhaps the most surprising part of this whole affair. Summerset, upon taking my shocked silence for consent, sent word to one Mr. Rutgers who—through coincidence or fate I cannot say—was less than two miles off, partaking of his own lunch. Before I knew my left from my right we had hailed a cab, driven the short distance through rising winds, and before long were situated in a rather homey office, complete with my toes warming by a new fire and a brandy situated within my grip. It was a rather informal gathering all in all, considering the peculiar circumstances.

Rutgers himself proved to be a sturdy young man rising in the practice of law, surely not someone who appeared to be meeting with a doctor of Summerset's specialty, though that is neither here nor there. Rutgers did not announce his relationship to my friend so nor would I, most assuredly. Rather, Rutgers was a man who I could see, as was quite obvious by his tenderness for city life, had little use for a dwelling out in the hills. He was also quite obviously excited to have found a potential buyer, though I certainly never presented myself as such. Dear Summerset did all the talking and as I attempted to wrap my head around it all—slow as always, Watson, as Holmes would say—I was given a description of the residence, courtesy of Rutger's enthusiasm and, if I may be a judge, eye for detail.

I'll admit, I found myself picturing the cottage and all its inherent charms.

Small, though not so small as to be suffocating, it contained three bedrooms, a kitchen, and the sitting room (just enough, I thought, for two men and a Mrs. Hudson). The structure was old but unyielding, its style simple but serviceable, the walls were a bit drafty and the roof groaned at night but truly, what country residence didn't? I was assured, however, that the true gem of the cottage lay in its land. The surrounding hills were a painted perfection for the casual admirer, the farmer, or yes, even the beekeeper. The spread of the estate gave the impression of solitude, a calming blanket of nature, though in truth the nearest neighbors were only three miles off, perfectly situated should one desire company or, heaven forbid, require medical assistance. It was, in a word, perfect. At least, perfect for a man whose vision of retirement included swarms of insects and no doubt very loud explosions that would do well to be muffled by miles of nature.

"What say you, Watson?" Summerset asked, his grin fierce.

"What say I? I say you are both insane!" However my protests were scoffed at and really, I could not entirely hide my answering smile.

"It is… promising," I admitted.

"Promising!" Summerset knocked me about the shoulder. "It's far more than promising, Watson! Come now. I was under the impression that you took risks. And Rutgers isn't asking for much, are you, my boy?"

"Not at all, Doctor." Though he quelled a bit under my raised brow. "Really, Doctor Watson. I swear to you, this is not a cheat. My parents passed last year in an accident," his lips twisted briefly and I kicked myself for being an insensitive fool. "They left me quite a bit though and really, I have no need for a great deal more funds, just enough to help my start up." He gestured around him and, though we were well accommodated I was reminded of the difficulties one faced when young, living in a city, and attempting to establish a solid career. "I only wish to be rid of it," Rutgers insisted. "Here,"

With that he passed me a small photograph of the cottage itself, the image a dark yellow. While the house was as quaint as he'd described it, it was really the people that held my attention. Rutgers, just a few years younger than he was now, and an older man who could only be his father. The elder Rutgers was tall and lean with a slightly crooked nose that had obviously been broken in the past. He reminded me all at once of Holmes and despite the difference in age I could suddenly see myself in Rutgers. That was all I could see then: Holmes and I standing before this dwelling in the Sussex Downs, our arms linked companionably. I found myself opening my mouth before I'd even thought it through.

"Very well." I said.

Again, reader, the only explanation I can offer is no explanation at all. Surely I had taken leave of my senses. The quick discovery of such a cottage's existence, the even quicker decision to purchase, our somewhat ludicrous hunt for another man of the law to sign over the ownership—all of it madness. The only time in my life that I have done something of equal foolishness was when I chose to move in with a man whom I knew next to nothing about and who, by his own admission, pushed the boundaries of what was acceptably eccentric for a middle aged bachelor.

I could only hope that this new, foolish decision proved as favorable as the last.

I arrived back at 221b long past dark and I found its residents exactly as I had expected. Mrs. Hudson was in a flurry of excitement the moment I walked through the door. Her voice held nothing but concern, worrying over the state she'd found Holmes in—"Drenched to the bone, Dr. Watson! One would expect to find seaweed hidden in his hair!"—even as she removed my own sodden garments. I assured her, repeatedly, that all would be well, all the while hoping that my words would prove truthful. I then made my way quickly up the seventeen steps, eager to both check on Holmes for myself and discuss my latest… adventure.

The warmth of our sitting room was a welcome surprise (too often someone left the window ajar) as was Holmes' languid form on the chase. He appeared fine at first glance, minus the droplets still clinging to his hair and a bruise that was developing on his right forearm. I may not be a consulting detective, but I am an expert on one. The rolled sleeve of Holmes' dressing gown informed me that he wished for his injury to be noticed, no doubt in the hopes of getting any lectures over with as quickly as possible, rather than out of a desire for medical attention.

"Do you see, Watson?" he asked in greeting, waving his arm. "A minor injury to be sure. I fear that I missed the curb down by the Jewelers, entirely lost my footing. In a rare moment for London there was no one in front of me to—" Holmes suddenly cut himself off, no doubt because I had just come into view. I collapsed into my favorite chair and deliberately ignored his hawk-like eyes, trained unerringly on my person.

"Well," I said after some time had passed. I displayed a tired smile for him. "Will you not get on with it?"

Holmes immediately swung to his feet and then just as quickly dropped to his knees. Nothing but the promise of deduction could move him so quickly. Like some sort of manic shoe shiner he took my boot between his hands, twisting it here and there with my foot still inside. He extended one long finger and ran it along the sole.

"I'm surprised there's anything to find, given the rain," I ventured.

"Nonsense, Watson." Holmes continued to pick at the underside of my boot, his eyes narrowed in concentration and—dare I presume?—contentment. I felt a sudden rush of affection for my oldest friend.

"It is the rain in all its glory that reveals where you've been," he said. Holmes gave the side of my boot a firm, wet slap. "Drenched is the word. Soaked through. These are made of sturdy, high quality leather, if I'm not mistaken."

"You know you're not," I said dryly. "You bought these for me last season."

Holmes went on, only a slight pull in his cheek betraying him. "It would have taken some time for them to become as wet as they are." His fingers skittered up and then down against my ankle, feeling the dampness that had sneaked up against my skin. He nodded. "Quite a while. You left before 2:00—that much is obvious. The umbrella is still in its stand—your departure must have been earlier than 1:30 for the clouds had already begun gathering then and you are a pragmatic man, Watson. Earlier than 1:00, for if you had remained that long Mrs. Hudson would have surely prepared you a meal." Holmes' nose lifted into the air, sniffing around the smell of rain and tobacco smoke. "No. The oven has not been lit today. What then could tempt you out before your second meal, and on such a day no less? Companionship, surely. The only acquaintance you have who would meet under such short notice and who is close enough to reach before lunch is Summerset. All of this is excluding, of course, his distinctive cologne which even now clings to your jacket. Really, Watson." Holmes tugged at my sleeve with some disgust. "You smell as if you have met with some clandestine lover."

I put such an image from my mind, choosing instead to chuckle at the familiar, hurried deductions.

"Right on all accounts, Holmes. What else?"

For me to encourage such a scrutiny of my person was rare indeed. Holmes' eyes narrowed in thought.

"We may return to your boots," he murmured. "As I said, dampness such as this takes time. You'll be drying them for at least a day, dear Watson. So you dined with Summerset, but you did not immediately return here to Baker Street—I was the first to greet our long-suffering landlady this night. You must have wished to, the weather and your worry over my outing would have compelled you to remain close, the additional excursion was Summerset's idea then." Holmes took up my hand, staring at the space between my knuckles. "One—two different locations; offices of the legal variety, judging by the ink that stains your fingertips. You've been signing documents, Watson." Here Holmes sat back on his heels, suddenly wary. "Documents that even now grace your inside pocket."

I nodded, pulling the folded paper from my breast. "Indeed, Holmes." I hesitated only a moment before handing it over. "A foolish and rash decision no doubt, but it is for you, my dear man."

"For me?" Holmes took the document back to his chase, settling in to read with an intensity I only saw him give to letters that pertained to a case (certainly he'd never devoted such attention to my own writing). He read, re-read, his eyes finally setting on the bottom where I knew my own signature was scrawled. He looked up, some unnamed emotion tightening his eyes.

"You bought a house," he said.

"Yes."

"In the Sussex Downs."

"Yes." I watched, fascinated, as his fingers crinkled the document's edge. All at once Holmes stood to pace. He waved my gift wildly about as if unsure of what to do with it, his arm edging dangerously towards the fire. I too sat up, beginning to recognize the signs of anger in my friend. Not the low, simmering rage that accompanied his interactions with London's more appalling criminals, but the shaky anger that I'd come to learn covered other emotions; most prominently hurt. You may not believe, dear reader, that the man I have so often described as logic's machine could feel so deeply, but I assure you it is true. Ever since our adventure with the Three Garridebs and that as the The Devil's Foot Holmes has been more… expressive in his emotions. Especially now that time was making itself known and talk of retirement was increasing. With that in mind,I had expected Holmes to laugh at my purchase. Perhaps admit to some amount of irritation that I would indulge in making such a decision for both of us. I did not expect this. Not… grief.

"Holmes?" I asked, softly. He was running his fingers through his hair.

"This is what you want then, Watson?"

"I… I'm unsure. Truly, Holmes, the purchase was an impulsive one."

To my shock he laughed. A high, shaky sound the diminished much of the room's warmth. "Impulsive? Ah. I didn't realize such a decision could be made so lightly. How good to know that our life together may be so easily dismantled by a mere impulse."

My brow furrowed. Thoroughly confused I desired to reach out, but Holmes was half way across the room, moving further away by the moment. "Holmes, I must admit that I don't follow your logic—"

"When have you?" he cut me off, voice cold. "Your inability to follow even the simplest of reasoning is extraordinary, Watson. Let me make myself abundantly clear to you then: you have my blessing. If you wish to move out then do so. I will hardly stand in your way."

For a long breath I could only stare, my exhaustion and Holmes's ludicrous misunderstanding temporarily rendering me dumb. When I did regain my voice it emerged in a laugh of my own, the exact opposite of Holmes'. Deep and joyous it wrapped around us both until Holmes scowled, his face flushed with anger and more than a little embarrassment.

"So glad you consider this humorous, Watson," he said, but I only continued to laugh the harder. He shrank from me further.

"Holmes, Holmes. My dear Holmes. You have it entirely wrong." Heaving myself to my feet I drew him by the sleeve of his dressing gown, encouraging him to sit. When he'd reluctantly settled I took the papers from him, now wrinkled quite beyond repair.

"You claim that I am oblivious, Holmes. You are quite right of course, though in this particular instance you have allowed your emotions to override your reasoning. Tell me, what do you see here?"

I will admit that it was with no little amount of glee that I smoothed the papers and once again held them beneath his hawk-like nose. It is so very rarely that I am able to teach Holmes anything and even rarer for his emotions to come so prominently into play. For both instances to come together simultaneously was an event not likely to occur again in my lifetime. I had to physically restrain myself from releasing another laugh.

"Come now, Holmes!" I encouraged. He merely lifted his chin.

"It is a deed," he said. "Obviously."

"Yes. What else?"

"Really, Watson." He growled. "It is a deed to a house you have bought. In the Sussex Downs no less. I do not appreciate you toying so shamelessly with my—"

"You see, but you do not observe," and by god, I thought he might strike me; the impertinence of me throwing his own words back at him during such a—what I now realized— was a vulnerable moment. Feeling truly warm for the first time since I'd come in from the rain, I decided to relent.

"Holmes." I said. "You are right on all accounts, as always—it was indeed I who laid down funds for this house. What you've failed to note, however, is that it was purchased in your name." I tried to return the papers, but my friend's hands now appeared to be numb. With a sigh I tossed the copies aside (no doubt they would soon be lost in the wilds of Holmes' "system" of organization) and I seated myself on the chase beside him. We were positioned far closer to one another than we were used to, outside of the cramped hiding places we frequented during cases, but I felt that such closeness was necessary for such a conversation. Tentatively, I allowed my fingers to briefly brush against his shoulder.

"I said it from the start. I bought it for you." I felt that this needed repeating for Holmes had turned away, his gaze locked on the fire, resolutely avoiding my own. "A gift, Holmes. An odd one, I'll admit," I let out a chuckled, "though when have we ever done things as other men? You've been speaking of retirement recently so I found you a place to which you can retire. If you do not wish to make use of it then you need never set foot beyond the door. If you wish to head there tomorrow then I shall employ a cab. By god, if you should wish to set fire to the place as part of some experiment then know that I will be standing at your side, preferably a safe distance away, watching the blaze with amused interest."

That at least drew something resembling a smile. I was again humbly gratified to watch my oldest friend swallowing deeply. He needed to clear his throat some times before he spoke.

"For me?"

"Yes. As I said."

"You have expended much time and money on my account, Watson," He said.

"Nonsense."

"You're sure of that, are you?" and his eyebrow was as disbelieving as it was arched. I fear that I grew quite red beneath his scrutiny for yes, I had spent a pretty penny that day.

"Well worth it," I assured him.

"Then I thank you."

The words were simple, but the emotion behind them was anything but. I knew that Holmes was not given to lofty speeches of gratitude, nor would he willingly admit to a rush of relief. His fingers, moving to graze my shoulder in a mirror image of my earlier action, was thank you enough. Thus, I was surprised when he continued.

"You worried me for a moment there," he said and I startled just a bit. "It is really my own fault, to think that you would abandon me so readily. How dare I doubt my Boswell?"

"How indeed." I chided gently.

"Then I put my trust in you once more. Would it not be more sensible to get both our names on the deed? For surely I won't be moving into this cottage without you."

"No, you won't." My answer was decisive, but colored by the hope I'd harbored since I decided on my purchase. Holmes huffed at my grin.

"Then we have work to do tomorrow. I would certainly enjoy seeing this place of ours. Do you fancy a trip, Watson?"

"I will follow wherever you wish to go." My words were a bit too truthful, piling up atop everything else we'd felt that night. Holmes snatched his violin dismissively.

"Then I shall make the arrangements."

So here we are. As I write this I am seated in a cab, the one I promised I'd order for Holmes, and Holmes himself is beside me, engaged in cataloguing everything that passes by our window. In the last hour he has extrapolated on his theory of crime prevailing in the countryside, he has named every variety of plant we've seen and noted any potential, poisonous concoctions that could be made from them. He has complained about our driver's treatment of the horses and fantasized about the bees he will one day keep. Holmes has, to speak plainly, done everything but question me about this narrative, though there is no doubt that he knows what I am writing. I cannot help but hope that some residual gratitude, kept fresh by this trip, keeps Holmes from releasing his usual, cutting remarks. Though no doubt he will deny this when he reads this story for himself.

Do you see now, dear reader? Friendship is indeed a potent, powerful drug. It makes one act as a fool. It certainly fooled me. I was under the impression that I was a sensible man who would never make rash, life changing decisions so frivolously, and yet friendship turned this understanding of myself on its head. Such a decision might have let me astray and yet here I sit, far happier after my impulsivity than I would ever have expected to be.

So I return to my original question: can we not be friends? Ours is an odd relationship to be sure, but I am coming to believe that the very best relationships are. Let us be friends, dear reader.

Who knows what may become of it.