A/n: continuing from last chapter.
The shadows are very long when he returns from his rounds.
"What's wrong, Holmes? Are you ill?"
He sits beside me.
"Is anything real, Watson?"
"Of course it is. Don't talk nonsense! I'm real, you're real, the sofa is real."
I should have known better than to try to explain.
"Are you cold?"
"Yes." In a way.
"I'll light a fire in the grate."
"That would be good."
He does so, and then drapes a blanket around me. "Your mind isn't here, what are you thinking of?"
"Nothing."
"What's happened? Did you get a telegram, bad news? Something about Mycroft?"
"No. Nothing like that."
"Just…a black mood?"
"Maybe."
"Well, I was planning on reading the newest medical journal before dinner. Mind if I read here, with you?"
He fetches the journal and returns to the sofa; the blanket has fallen off my shoulder, and he fixes it before beginning to read. He holds the pages flat, and now and then points out something of especial interest, mentioning how it might have been connected with such and such a crime.
I blink, and the pages he holds are covered with ink words telling information and news—and there, his hands are useful tools to save lives.
He looks at me after a while. "Better now, Holmes?"
Yes, Watson; just a little better.