Real life is being a pain at the moment; I've taken on a couple freelance jobs that have occupied most of my spare time. My apologies for the lack of activity, but that's the way things go. At least the hectic schedule inspired a sort of double drabblet.
It was the spring of 1895, and Sherlock Holmes and I had been swamped with work; he with a non-stop string of cases that thrilled and exasperated him, and I with taking over an old friend's medical practice in St. John's Wood, while he was holidaying on the Continent.
In consequence, I had not even seen Holmes for over a week other than the odd moment at breakfast when one of us would rush in, choke down some coffee, and throw a "good-morning" over our shoulders as we hurried out. I invariably was called even in the evenings by patients, for the practice was a large one; and he prowled the city, heaven only knew where, in search of his quarry – and the stress was beginning to toll on us both.
So it was, when I received urgent word from our landlady that my friend had finally pushed himself too far and had collapsed one morning, I immediately postponed my afternoon patients for two hours and hurried back to Baker Street. I rushed through the front door, tossing my hat and dripping coat in the general direction of the hat-stand, and limped up the stairs to Holmes's bedroom.
Empty.
I stood for a moment, blinking in surprise, and then heard the door below slam as only Sherlock Holmes could slam it.
"MRS. HUDSON!" he bellowed as he pounded up the stairs. "IS HE – what the devil, Watson!" This last was exclaimed in a tone of mingled relief and astonishment, as I popped out into the hall. "Are you quite all right?"
"Quite, and you?"
"A little tired," he replied puzzledly, frowning. "But that telegram, saying it was an emergency about you – I had to leave in the middle of the autopsy! What on earth –"
I too was surprised that a similar missive had found its way to him, and worried that it could be some trap laid to catch us both off-guard in our house – but apparently it was a far more prosaic reason. Mrs. Hudson suddenly appeared from the sitting-room, calmly wielding an empty dinner-tray.
"Your luncheon is growing cold, gentlemen," said she serenely, sweeping past us as we gaped at her. "You've not spoken in over a week, and I grow weary of cooking for one; hardly worth the effort."
"Mrs. Hudson…" Holmes breathed in slowly through his nose. "Could you not have found some less…alarming way of getting us back here for a luncheon?"
"I doubt it, considering the fact that only one thing would be sufficient to tear you from your work," she admonished, smiling deviously. "Gentlemen, I believe you both are in need of a break."