From Alosha135:7th - hair of gold

I do worry about my Watson. He is too soft-hearted and sentimental - particularly at this time of year. It also seems to be somewhat easier to hurt or upset him since my hiatus.

He never says anything, not like he used to. Rather than shouting back at me, he seems more inclined to fall silent, dejected, and content himself with the occasional sarcastic remark (which is often made with a resigned and tired tone). I wonder whether we shall ever be the same.

This morning I found my friend already up and decorating a tree in our sitting room. I admit that I was not in the best humour. My bedroom is much smaller than his, as his room is the master, and has no hearth - it is freezing in December - and I had spent much of the night in cold and uncomfortable wakefulness.

"Good morning Holmes."

I can honestly not remember my reply, if I gave one at all, but I suspect that it was not terribly polite.

"Come now!" my companion protested as I threw myself into my chair and warmed my hands before the fire. "It is Christmas Eve! Surely even you could manage to be cheerful for just today and tomorrow?"

Watson is never cheerful after a restless night and so I felt that it was unfair of him to ask such a thing of me. Perhaps I should have said as much, as opposed to protesting that Christmas is merely a season in which the rich line their pockets with the pennies of the poor and that I had no desire to partake in the festivities. What I said is of course not without truth, but my words were harsh and I know only too well that the fellow likes this season.

He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. Usually, I would have recognised this as an indication that I had hurt him. On this occasion I was far too busy feeling sorry for myself.

"Why do we have to decorate anyway?"

"Because I want to."

Again, this should have indicated that I had gone far enough.

"You shall only have to take it all down again."

He shrugged.

I gazed at the decorations that were waiting on our sofa and frowned. "This angel for atop the tree. It is new?"

"Yes."

"What was wrong with the old one?"

"Nothing. I simply..."

I snorted. "You do so fritter your money. Why replace a thing when there is no need?"

"Deduce it."

I frowned at his turned back. "What do you mean, 'deduce it'?" I snapped. "Deduce what? You give me no data! You make no sense! Really Watson! I cannot fathom why you should choose to waste your money on gaudy ornaments..."

But the fellow was gone. I heard the door of his bedroom slam and heard him throw himself upon his bed.

I gazed at the object that had caused our argument. I had to admit that it was a pretty thing, but it was no more or less charming than the one that it had replaced. I picked it up and examined it closely, attempting to see it through the eyes of my Boswell. As angels usually are, it was female and wore a white gown. She held a harp and had white wings made of real feathers. Her eyes were blue, she had rosy cheeks and a smiling face. Her hair was gold.

I then saw his reason for his purchasing this angel. She looked rather like his deceased wife, Mary.

I have not spoken a word to him all day. I wish to apologise, but what can I say to him? What can I do?

I do apologise about this one; it turned out to have rather more angst than intended.