Chapter Thirteen.

John Watson alighted from the back of a black London cab outside 221B Baker Street and used his front door key to let himself in, fleetingly wondering if he should offer to give it back to Holmes now that he no longer lived here.

"It's only me!" He called out as he climbed the stairs.

He was expected, but he didn't want to take the chance that Holmes might go into his damn Ninja mode and pounce on him, suspecting an intruder.

He remembered all too well what happened to 'burglars' who attempted to breach 221B.

He had been summoned.

A text at midnight the night before had invited him to join Holmes for breakfast at 8.30am and Watson had immediately thought about Cassia Ingram and her meeting with his friend.

He could not wait to find out what had transpired between the two of them.

Holmes was nowhere to be seen as he entered the living room, but Mrs Hudson was busy in the kitchen, watching a saucepan with eggs boiling away merrily and waiting for the toaster to disgorge its contents.

"He's still getting dressed," she told Watson as the toaster popped up. "He looks like hell," she added for good measure. "Been up all night, pacing up and down, wearing my carpet threadbare," she sighed deeply. "Keeping me awake! I've never seen him like this before."

"I'll talk to him," Watson assured, realizing that it was high time he got to the bottom of just what was ailing Holmes, real or imagined.

"Someone needs to. Someone needs to give him a bloody good shake, if you ask me!"

Watson went back into the living room and picked up one of the morning papers from the pile on the couch.

The Independent.

He then went to the table.

It was set for two; however, this morning there was something different about the place settings.

His own place setting looked normal, as it should be. Knife, fork, butter knife, cup and saucer with a teaspoon resting in the saucer, all perfectly proper, but in Holmes usual place, there was already a dinner plate, sitting on the place mat, between a knife and fork, and on the plate was Holmes scarf.

"Mrs Hudson?" he called out, wondering if the old woman had finally gone loopy.

She came to the doorway and he waved vaguely at Holmes place setting.

"Don't look at me, dear. He laid the table before I got here. I think he's lost the plot."

Light suddenly dawned as Watson recalled the conversation he had had with Holmes a few days before, and his declaration that if Cassia Ingram proved to him that she was indeed a genuine clairvoyant, he would eat his scarf.

A broad smile curved on Watson's lips.

Good for you, Cass!

'Nuff said.

They had a new client and a case.

That was why he had been summoned.

Holmes no doubt wanted to share the details with him and was eager to get started.

When Holmes finally emerged from his bedroom, fully suited and booted, well groomed but looking anything but bright eyed and bushy tailed, Watson did not comment on the scarf on Holmes plate, as he took up his seat at the table and waited for Mrs Hudson to bring him some tea.

He'd well and truly got the message and there was nothing more to be said.

Watson noted that Mrs Hudson was right.

Holmes looked like hell.

Dark circles under his eyes, which were now even more sunken in his pallid face and he was unusually quiet and withdrawn as he sipped his tea.

He also looked as though he were miles away, functioning on auto pilot.

Holmes finally removed the scarf from his plate when Mrs Hudson brought his food to the table. A bowl of cornflakes and some fresh toast, the eggs, it turned out, had been for Watson.

"Mrs Hudson was telling me about her windfall," Watson filled the silence, chewing toast and sipping tea whilst at the same time carefully scrutinizing Holmes.

His friend hadn't touched his food, just sipped his tea, and although he had his nose in the newspaper, he hadn't turned the page in five minutes.

Nothing in any newspaper could hold his attention for that long.

Something was distracting him.

Perhaps it was time to jolt him out of his daydream.

"She also told me that you fainted," Watson added in concerned, doctoral tones, as he scooped the last piece white from his first egg out of it's shell and popped it into his mouth, and this time, Holmes lowered the paper and regarded Watson with a look of pained resignation.

"It was an accident." Holmes emphasised with a glower. "Surely I don't have to remind you, of all people, about the statistics on accidents that happen in the home? I slipped on some water on the bathroom floor and it just knocked the wind out of me."

End of story.

"Sherlock, is there something you want to tell me?"

This simple question elicited a rather shocked expression from Holmes, which in its self surprised Watson.

"I mean, Mrs Hudson thinks your mood swings are down to PMT, but, you were queasy all day yesterday, then you fainted ..."

"Slipped," Holmes corrected tightly, wondering where Watson was going with this. "I slipped!" He hissed through clenched teeth.

"Look, Sherlock, we're friends, right? There's nothing that we can't say to each other, tell each other ..."

Oh God, did Watson know?

Had Cassia Ingram gone behind his back and revealed his secret?

Oh shoot ...

Watson's tone was low and grave now, and he was actually reaching out across the table towards Holmes' pale, bony hand.

"And I am a doctor after all. Nothing you could say would ever shock me. It all adds up ..."

"John ..." Holmes gulped, both mortified and furious.

He had wanted to be the one to tell his friend Watson, in his own time and in his own way.

How dare Cassia Ingram take matters into her own hands!

His thoughts were raging out of control now, so he wasn't really listening to Watson anymore, until one word suddenly penetrated the fog swirling around his brain.

"What?"

"Sherlock, I said, you would tell me if you were pregnant, wouldn't you?"

The panicked expression on Holmes face dissolved into one of utter incredulity and his mouth dropped open, until he caught himself and closed it quickly.

"Should I nip out to Boots the Chemist and get a pregnancy testing kit?" Watson could not stiffle a guffaw. "You should see your face right now!"

"Watson!"

Holmes took a deep breath, relief flooding through him.

Any other time he might have appreciated his friend's ribald humour, but today was not that day.

However, Watson did not know what his friend was about to face, so, he could be forgiven his little joke.

"I think you have been spending a little too much time with Mrs Hudson," Holmes spoke at last, his tone even and calm as he drew in a long, calming breath.

"Well, you have been acting a like a big girl lately."

Holmes let the comment slip.

Instead, he glanced at his watch, and then set aside his newspaper and pushed back his chair from the table.

"I have an appointment."

"A case?"

"No. A personal appointment."

"A follow up at the dentist?"

"No."

"Oh. Ok."

Watson frowned deeply.

"Hang on, Sherlock, you asked me to come over, remember. Please tell me you didn't just want company for breakfast, which, by the way, I notice you haven't touched."

"No, John."

There was something odd in Holmes' tone and his expression as he rose from his chair and walked across the room to gather his jacket, wallet and keys from their usual resting places.

"Sherlock?"

Don't make me ask, John. Please. Don't make me ask.

Holmes intended to reveal all to Watson, but not here, not with Mrs Hudson still lurking in the kitchen, ears flapping no doubt.

He intended to tell her too, of course, but he wanted to sit her down and explain it to her, face to her face, so she didn't get the wrong end of the stick.

The last thing that he wanted was for her to overhear by accident and think that he hadn't wanted her to know.

"Oh, you want me to come with you?"

"I would appreciate the company."

"And we're going where?"

"I will explain on the way," Holmes intoned succinctly and turned away from Watson to shrug on his jacket.

Watson was still frowning, deeply puzzled by Holmes whole demeanour.

He was very serious, withdrawn and somewhat distracted this morning, and not in the way a case usually distracted him.

Where was the usual nervous energy?

Where was the usual arrogance? Disdain?

Holmes seemed unusually restrained and guarded.

However, he did not have time to ask Holmes for any details as his friend was already heading out of the door and down the stairs.

"Hurry up if you're coming, Watson. I don't want to be late."

Mrs Hudson appeared at his side, wanting to clear the table of the debris from their meal, starting with Holmes untouched dish of soggy cornflakes, and Watson looked at her curiously as he rose from the table.

"Don't look at me, dear. I told you, I think he's lost the plot!"

However she could not hide her concern from him. Her only consolation, that Sherlock's friend would be with him and would keep a watchful eye on him while he was out.

Whatever was going on, Holmes had chosen not to face it alone, and to John Watson that spoke volumes, and the fact that he had chosen Watson to go with him only helped to reinforce the fact that their friendship was back on track, and Watson could not have been more pleased about that.

"The cab's waiting. Are you coming? I will go without you!" Holmes voice boomed from the bottom or the stairs.

"Alright, Sherlock, keep your hair on! I'm coming!"