Pointless drabble dedicated to Protector of the Grey Fortress, as well as all my friends. You know why; thank you.
"How can I help you if you refuse to allow me?" I demanded. Instead of countering my outburst, however, to my disappointment Holmes only cast his eyes carpet-ward.
"That is just it, Doctor – you cannot help, and it would save us both pain and embarrassment if you would simply cease the attempt," said he miserably.
Three weeks since I had seen him sleep or eat properly, even move about normally. He refused, true to his promise, to resort to artificial means of countering the black depressions to which his intense nature was prone. I almost wished he could have the infernal drug, if it would bring some life back into his face.
The barely-concealed, desperate pleading in the back of those dead eyes cut straight to my heart. Without thinking, I resorted to the simplest method of comfort, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders tightly.
He stiffened instinctively, but for fewer moments than I would have imagined before sighing, actually leaning into me.
"It will pass, Holmes," I promised, though I was myself doubtful.
An empty sigh into my shoulder. "Will it?"
"It will," I vowed anew. "If I have to murder someone myself to get you a case, I will."
He gave an abrupt bark of laughter, and I knew I'd made progress. Not much, but 'twas a beginning.