It was over an hour before the autopsy was completed on the chap we'd dredged from the Thames, and ten more minutes before I'd gathered the evidence we might need and was returning to my office in that darkest hour just after midnight.
No doubt Mr. Holmes would want to see the body himself, and probably find a hundred or two things I and the police-surgeon had missed (and take great glee in the fact too, as usual), but this would do for starters. I opened my door, stifling a yawn behind the sheaf of papers I held, and hoped that the amateur could find a clue or connection in the whole mess.
P.C. Cummings was slouched in my desk chair, and scrambled up guiltily as I entered. I spared him no more than an eyeroll, having better things to talk of. But my words faded unspoken as I saw that Mr. Holmes had finally fallen asleep, his long legs sprawled half-under my desk, his chin upon his chest, and the room filled with his exhausted breathing.
"I thought it best to not wake him, Inspector," Cummings whispered.
"Good lad," I agreed thoughtfully. "Constable?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Do you suppose he'll murder us in the morning if we let him sleep a while longer?"
"Probably, sir. Shall I fetch him a blanket?"