After three hours, Holmes's nerves could take the silence no longer. Settling cautiously in his chair, he clasped his hands nervously.

"Dear fellow, what on earth is wrong?"

Watson glanced up from the mesmerizing fire, affecting amusement. "What, do you mean you cannot read my thoughts from my features in your customary manner?"

"That is just the point, Watson," he replied slowly. "You…haven't shown anything whatsoever, for nearly two hours."

"I'm tired, Holmes, that's all."

"No, it is not. You rarely remain stationary, Doctor, and never without something like a book to occupy your mind."

"I don't feel much like reading."

"Writing, then? Now that it comes to mind, I don't believe I've seen you scribble much lately…" He frowned, suddenly realising this.

Watson's gaze had wandered back to the fire-coals. "I just…don't really want to write any more," he confessed resignedly.

"What?"

"Well, really, Holmes…you hate the stories, and I've no outlet to publish them anyway. There's hardly any point."

Holmes raised a shocked eyebrow. "For yourself at least, surely? And I don't hate them…"

The Doctor sadly waved off the mumbled apology before answering, "It's…not worth it anymore, Holmes, just for myself. I just don't care anymore."

Now worried, the detective rose to clutch the familiarity of his pipe. "Can I do anything?" he asked at last. "If it truly means that much to you, I could read them –"

Watson laughed, a lighter sound than he had heard in hours. "I should never ask that of you. I just…need to take a break for a while, I think." His eyes grew sad, wandering over the many books upon the desk before depressedly returning to the fire.

Holmes chewed thoughtfully on his pipe-stem, his mind ticking like a well-loved timepiece. He was more than accustomed to feeling as if the world might end and that he did not much care if it did – but to see his stalwart friend prey to one of those bleak fits of depression was appalling, and it rattled his very soul's foundations.

"Perhaps we both need one," he suggested suddenly. They had no case at present, and London was quiet. "Suppose we take a short holiday?"

Watson blinked disinterestedly, and then sat up with an exclamation of surprise. "You? Actually wanting to holiday?"

"No, but I think you could do to get away from the city for a few days; you've been killing yourself over those unappreciative people in the clinic," Holmes replied.

"I thought you hated holidaying."

"I do," he agreed shyly, "but then again, I've only ever gone alone, you know. I rather think that this time I might find it more bearable."