I found Holmes bustling about the sitting room one spring day; he paused in his activity and looked up as I entered.
His face was inscrutable save for the flicker of his brows that told me he didn't want it to be inscrutable. What was he trying to tell me?
I fell into his methods.
His dark hair was unruly, almost standing on end—he'd been running his fingers through it, undoubtedly. The sitting room was strewn with papers and beakers and books; his left hand was blackened with ink and there were spatters on his vest front. He must have been working hard all day while I tended my patients.
Finally I looked to the mantle.
The bottle was full. It had not been touched.
Holmes saw my eyes go there and for a moment there was a look of such eagerness and hope in his face that I wanted to cry. He was trying so hard, and he was so proud…he set about stacking books with his inexhaustible nervous energy.
"Holmes, I've an idea. It's so nice out, that we might—"
"Take a walk together, yes, a splendid idea!" He bounded to my side, seizing his hat and coat on the way. He gripped my arm tightly as we left the room, but he did not look back.
A/N: Oh, well done you! I'm proud of you myself, Holmes. Note that the bottle is still there though. He has a long way to go yet, and I doubt I'll see him to the end of the road.
Anyway, I absolutely love this chapter. :3
Next chapter will be very light-hearted. Rough draft is done…