Watson did not see Holmes for three days, nor did he seek him out. Mary scolded him harshly for his treatment of their houseguest, but Watson did not give a sincere apology. Watson was frustrated that he couldn't make Holmes understand him. Few things had escaped Holmes' logical mind when it had been fully functioning. It was impossible to become used to this sick parody of an alternative.

Watson had more important things on his mind, at any rate. He had implored Mary to try walking around the bedroom once a day. She didn't refuse, but on most days she just couldn't get her feet to support her. On the third day since Watson had spoken harshly to Holmes, Mary's fever spiked and she began to deliriously cry in Watson's arms.

"John," she said, more of a sob than a word. "I want to see the outside…please. I have to see it, just once more." She gripped his strong arm with her shaking hands and looked into his eyes with the most miserable glaze of fever in her own.

Watson ran his fingers through her hand gently, then wiped away the moisture on her face with a dry cloth. "Darling, you mustn't talk like that. If you will eat some more of this soup, you will have more strength, and perhaps tomorrow…"

"John…I want to see Sherlock," she cried. Weeping wracked her body like a convulsion. "I want to talk to him and tell him…tell him goodbye…"

Watson disciplined his feature to stone. "Mary, you are not leaving. Not today. Not ever. I'm going to save you," he swore. But, his lip was shaking as soon as he finished speaking, and his eyes filled with hot tears.

"Please, please," Mary begged. She tossed her head fitfully on the pillow. "I just want to see him, please."

Watson could no more deny her this request than he could deny her a glass of water. Bathing her forehead with a cool cloth once more, he beckoned Miss Winney to look after her while he sought out Holmes.

Watson took the stairs slowly up to the guest bedroom. He suddenly felt the strain of guilt weighing him down, making the ascension even more difficult. He knew that his treatment of Holmes had been harsh and misplaced. Yet, he had made no effort to apologize to the man, or even to see if Holmes was all right.

He stood at the closed door to the bedroom, trying to listen for any movements from the other side. He heard mumbled words that were too low for him to make out, along with a hissing noise and an occasional thud on the floor. Watson suspiciously wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and turned. It was locked. Watson knocked loudly on the door. "Holmes! It's me, Watson. I need to speak with you now," he shouted. The sounds from the room became more furious. "I'd like to talk to you, old boy," Watson repeated with a softened tone, hoping that Holmes would pick up on his kind manner.

Watson waited for several minutes, calling for Holmes occasionally, but the door never opened for him. He called for Piper, who kept a ring of keys for the household. When the maid met him on the upper floor, he asked her for the bedroom door key.

"Sir, I'm sorry," she said, anxiously. "My keys 'ave been missin' all day. I've looked everywhere. I was going to letcha know at the end of the day if I couldn't find 'em."

"Never mind," Watson barked. He went down to his study to pick up his own set of house keys. The door to his study was cracked open. Watson went inside and saw that his drawers and cabinets were open and rifled. "Oh God, no," he breathed, when he realized what few items were missing from his medical cabinet.

Watson snatched up his keys from the desk and ran back upstairs to the guest room. "Holmes!" he cried, banging on the door with one hand and rattling the lock with the other. "Stop! Don't do it! Please listen to me!" Finally, Watson's efforts were profitable and he had unlocked the door. He swung open the obstruction and glanced around the room frantically.

"Oh, God, Holmes…Holmes! Holmes!"