Squirming: Holmes' POV. –back to after Caught again.
Watson had been dying to ask me if he could move in for three days. He could quite easily have given himself a cough from all the clearing of his throat he was doing, only to stare blankly and look down again.
That was the problem, really. We were starting from scratch- he was being too formal. It was like he hadn't known me for however long it was- thirteen years! Gosh, thirteen years.
It was a vicious circle, I suppose. I knew that the formality thing could be fixed by his moving in, but he wouldn't ask to move in because he was being so damn polite.
Of course he wanted to move in. There was no question about that. I had used my cousin's name and bought his practise (a princely sum, I'll say,- but worth every penny.) and all had left now was his wife's old house, which from what I gathered was more a place of loneliness and coldness rather than fond reminiscence (he had been avoiding it- he had stayed over nearly every night for a week since my return from Europe) . Not at all up to Baker Street standards.
Though, he was a fairly loveable fool. It was definitely enjoyable to watch him squirming in his seat with uncertainty. I supposed I missed that affable and honest foolishness.
"Watson?"
"My dear Holmes."
"Do you want to move in?"