Watson had not expected me to still be up, that much was clear. Surprise and guilt mingled on his face. "Holmes! Did I wake you?" His tone was apologetic, tentative.

"No, I have not yet turned in," I answered. Meanwhile, I observed him as quickly and subtly as I could. Clearly I had erred in my supposition that he had fallen asleep. The past three and a half hours had been far from restful for my Boswell. He had not bothered to undress and already dark circles were forming beneath his eyes. Moreover, he had been pacing nervously in his room for some time. Only strain or damp weather aggravated his slight limp, which was more pronounced now than it had been earlier today – yesterday, rather. That he suspected he had awakened me only confirmed my deduction; his bedroom lay directly above mine and any pacing of his would be clearly audible.

Then there was the matter of his reaction upon seeing me. His surprise I understood. The guilt was puzzling. It may have been brought on by assuming he had woken me, or . . .

I caught Watson's surreptitious glance towards the sideboard near the fireplace, the one with the decanter of brandy. Ah. He had finally ventured downstairs for a badly-needed drink but found some shame in doing so. Knowing his dislike for chemical stimulants and depressants, this seemed the likeliest cause.

Nevertheless, I moved to the sideboard and poured us each a measure. Brandy would steady his nerve and decrease his reluctance to speak. It would also serve as a mild sedative. Watson accepted the offered glass but made no move to relax. Even when I arranged myself in my chair he remained on his feet. Oddly, he seemed distracted and as the minutes ticked by, he grew tense as if for flight.

"I have been remiss," I said quietly, breaking the silence.

Startled, Watson at last focused his attention, on me. "In what way?"

In being a considerate friend, I ought to have replied. "The experiment from tonight was a fantastic failure. I ought to have realized that . . .

today was the anniversary of Maiwand

". . . I was using incompatible agents and spared us both the discomfort."

I saw a strange look sweep over Watson's face before he sipped again at the brandy. It took me a moment for me to interpret it. He thought that I thought his abrupt departure hours ago was because of my experiment and its resulting odoriferous fumes. He was both relieved that I, apparently, had misinterpreted his behavior but discomforted that I should blame myself.

"Do not trouble yourself over it, Holmes. Even you are bound to miscalculate now and then."

So, he was content to go along with my "incorrect" theory. Happily, he had also left me a path to transition to the true reason behind why he had fled. I smiled dryly. "Indeed. I suppose I am only human and thus subject to 'the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.' As are you."

My shot hit home far too well. Watson paled slightly and his posture stiffened. "And what, pray, do you mean by that?"

The tightness of his tone warned me to utilize all the tact I was capable of. Slowly I rose and crossed to his chair. I retrieved the volume so rudely thrust aside. Watson did not step back as I approached but he looked at me as if the book were a Martini rifle aimed at his heart. Changing tactics, I returned to my chair and dropped the poems on the rug. "It was not my experiment that drove you from the room. It was memories of war."

Watson, irritating fellow, immediately perceived the direction in which the conversation was headed and strove to cut me off. "Assuming you are correct, that I left the room because of unpleasant memories about the war, would it not be reasonable to say that had I wished you to pry into such matters I would have stayed where I was?"

"It would," I admitted reluctantly.

"Indeed." He turned away, draining his glass and brushing past me to leave it on the sideboard. I knew my Boswell's stubbornness; if the man wanted to avoid a course of action, it would take something of cataclysmic force to persuade him. I knew of only one thing that would arrest his attention immediately. Softly, I quoted the fateful Kipling passage:

"When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains/ and the women come out to cut up what remains/ then roll to your rifle and blow out your brains/ and go to your God like a soldier."

Watson had stopped before the grate and gone rigid at the first line. By the times I had finished, he was gasping shallowly, barely breathing at all.

"Watson?"

The empty brandy glass dropped from his hand, cracking when it hit the floor. Cursing myself for an insensitive idiot, I sprang up and strode to Watson's side. He showed no sign of having heard me. Nor did he react when I touched his shoulder and shook it lightly. He was staring into the fireplace, eyes strangely blank and unblinking.

I could not get him to respond at all.

So, short chapter and a nasty cliffhanger to boot. Yup. The author is evil