I was dimming the gas in my room when rapid, light steps came on the stairs.
Holmes burst in, jumpy and breathing rapidly. "It wasn't a suicide!"
I collapsed on the edge of my bed with a groan. "I thought we had settled this over dinner."
"You also thought we'd settled it during the cab ride. I will not give in 'til I prove my point!"
"What point? Surely it's clear even to a child. The man had taken up morphine, had a ready supply and when his wife died of illness, he took an overdose. There was no one else in the house; or do you think the cat injected him?"
He began pacing the room, wringing his long hands violently. "I tell you it wasn't a suicide!"
"Holmes," I began quietly. "Is it impossible he succumbed to grief and took his life?"
He stiffened, turning from me, and I could see the tension in his thin back. "No," he whispered at last with a great effort. "And there lies the problem."
"Because if it happened to him, it could happen to…anyone?"
He nodded, proud shoulders sinking, and turned to the door. "I'm making a fool of myself, Watson, and it is late. Goodnight."
"No, Holmes." I turned up the gas. "Let us talk awhile before I go to bed."
A/N: I was jolted into writing this after reading that morphine was a big factor in Victorian suicides.