Idleness the Root

Luckily, Holmes took no notice of Watson's slip and listened at the door, interest alight in his hollowed eyes.

"Watson, please entertain Inspector Lestrade while I freshen up," he demanded suddenly, and he seized his discarded costume and rushed into his bedroom.

Watson scrubbed a hand across his face, perhaps hoping it would erase the exasperation evident upon his brow. He opened the door and managed politely, "'Evening, Lestrade," although, to his ears, it sounded a bit gruff.

"Good evening, doctor. Have I got one for Holmes, and no mistake," the man growled, tramping up the final steps to the landing and heading inside, straight for the whisky upon the side table. "Medicinal, you understand," he pardoned unnecessarily, filling a modest glass and draining it.

Watson shut the door, eyebrows raised. "Holmes will be here in just a moment, Inspector," he said loudly.

He approached the short man and gripped his arm. Startled by the unexpected motion, he returned Watson's look searchingly. They were silent for a moment before Watson finally implored sotto voce, "Lestrade, I'll be frank with you. Holmes has been unwell of late. He is not himself, and I'm worried. Do you absolutely need his assistance in this case?"

In the three year interim of Holmes' hiatus abroad, Lestrade and Watson's friendship had grown stronger, and it was to this familiarity that Lestrade softened now. "I'm sorry, John. But – ah, you'll understand when I explain it all. I'm afraid we're… Well, we're honestly a bit flummoxed on how to proceed."

"That is certainly not too extraordinary a circumstance, Inspector," Holmes drawled from the doorway of his room. His coat was straightened, his hair combed back, and he appeared attentive; although, weariness remained discernibly upon the tight lines of his face.

Understandably, the comment was met with twin glares and a sigh of exasperation which Holmes readily ignored.

"Perhaps we can be seated. I see you've already helped yourself to the contents upon the side table, Lestrade – yes," he said loudly, speaking over the officer's disgruntled protest, "that's of course quite alright. A murdered body is a sight to which one never grows accustomed."

Lestrade scowled, turning his gaze towards Watson with the unspoken accusation, I thought you said he was out of sorts. Watson shrugged minutely. Apparently, exhaustion had not softened either Holmes' tongue or observation skills.

"As usual, you've guessed it," Lestrade admitted loftily, choosing his verb carefully so as to annoy Holmes. Its use did not go unnoticed and a tremor or irritation passed through the detective's jaw. With a grumble, Lestrade settled upon the settee. "No need straining that head of yours; honestly, every time… If you'd ever just sit patiently I'd happily tell you."

"Well come Lestrade," the detective snapped, "have out with it then, if you're going to!" He ran a hand over his hair agitatedly, forcing himself to lean back into his chair.

"Alright, alright." Lestrade waited a moment for Watson to retrieve his notebook and began when all were settled.

"One David Johnson was discovered this evening in one of the shadier alleyways near St. Giles – well, if there are alleyways more shady than another 'round those parts."

Watson pulled a face. "A dead man in St. Giles? That's hardly surprising, Lestrade."

Lestrade glared, and Watson gave an innocent shrug. "Well, there's more to it than that, isn't there? Honestly, you're becoming as awful as Holmes."

The detective in question responded with a faint grimace of a smile, which Lestrade inferred as an invitation to continue.

"Well, anyway. When we found the chap, he was sprawled out in such a fashion that we think he collapsed nearer the street and was dragged back further into the darkness of the alleyway. His complexion said 'suffocation', so until we get the results from the police surgeon, we're supposing a poison."

Holmes held up a faintly tremoring hand to interrupt. "To clarify; you infer that he was dragged by the position of his body and the scuffs along the heels of his shoes?" Lestrade nodded. "And you say poison rather than some other form of asphyxiation – say, an accidental obstruction of the breathing passages or strangulation – given the factors that he was obviously dragged away by a second person and that there were no marks upon the neck?"

Lestrade shook his head with grudging appreciation. "Of course, you're quite right, Mr. Holmes. And you didn't even have to see the bloody thing." He sighed and continued seriously. "You understand, we've taken into consideration all of your methods with this case; we wanted to be sure we'd tried everything before consulting you."

"Then I assume," Holmes inquired, "you have made a thorough search of the crime scene and victim's belongings?" Absently, a hand rose to tug at his collar.

"Yes, we have. And we don't like what we've found. Or rather, not found."

Holmes' head tilted a fraction, his pale face pulling into an expression of query.

"That's why I've come to consult you, Mr. Holmes. We know there was another person involved, but we can't find any trace of the chap."

The detective snorted. "Surely you've just not looked hard enough." Watson frowned, noting that Holmes was becoming steadily paler, a small trickle of sweat rolling down his temple. Discretely, the Doctor rose to pour a glass of water, handing it to his friend.

"I'm telling you, Holmes, we made absolutely sure before I came here." The Inspector spread his hands helplessly. "We see the marks of Johnson being dragged. We even see where some of his steps faltered along the sidewalk outside. But there is absolutely no trace of a second person. And Johnson certainly didn't drag himself."

Holmes was frowning, concentrating his gaze on the glass of water clutched in his hand. When he didn't appear ready to speak, Lestrade continued desperately.

"Holmes, surely a case like this appeals to you? There' evidence of murder, and yet nothing – besides a logical conclusion – to prove it. This is precisely the sort of puzzle you're good at solving. And," he continued with a self-deprecating scowl, "it'd be a perfect occasion to prove how superior your observational abilities are to those of the Yard's."

Still, Holmes said nothing.

Quietly, Watson prompted, "… Holmes?"

The detective lifted his head and shook it. "No, I think not this time, Lestrade. I'm sure you've done what you can."

Lestrade and Watson stared.

"Holmes, you can't be serious. You're not even going to look—"

"No, Lestrade, I'm afraid I'm uninterested at present. As Watson will likely have told you, I'm not feeling quite well." The detective rose suddenly, depositing the glass of water upon the table and quickly seeking out Lestrade's hand to shake. "Goodnight, Inspector. Thank you for stopping by."

Lestrade's mouth worked up and down several times in a piscine fashion, no sound managing to escape. Watson took the initiative in his stead. "Holmes, are you quite alright?"

"Perfectly," Holmes responded hastily, turning towards his bedroom on faintly wobbling legs. "Please, do see the Inspector out."

And with the slam of his door, the matter was closed.

Bemused, the inspector and doctor stared at one another.

"Not… Going to take the case?" Lestrade repeated softly, eyes wide. "A murder case? … Because the Yard's likely done what it can?"

Watson shook his head slowly, expression equally dumbfounded. "Perhaps I should see you to the door, Inspector."

Downstairs, Lestrade hesitated at the door, pausing in his action of putting on hat and gloves. "Keep an eye on him, John," he murmured with a lifted eyebrow. "I've known Mr. Holmes for a smidgen longer than you – though certainly not as well – and I don't think I've ever seen him in a state like this."

He wasn't referring to Holmes' weary appearance, or even his strange behavior, and Watson understood. Both of them could sense a change in the detective, although neither could put a finger on the shift precisely.

Watson nodded. "Take care, Lestrade."

With a degree of apprehension, Watson made his way back upstairs. He stood outside Holmes' door that met the landing, listening. After a moment's silence, he rapped upon the wood with a knuckle. "Holmes? Holmes, are you alright?"

"The sitting room, Watson," Holmes called quietly.

Watson found his friend standing before the table, pouring himself a new glass of water. There was rattling as his shaking hand caused the pitcher and glass to knock against one another.

"Are you alright?" Watson repeated warily.

Holmes drained his glass and hung his head, giving a deep sigh. "I'm as well as can be expected, Watson."

The doctor frowned. It wasn't really an answer. "Holmes, old chap, I think it's time you tried to sleep."

Numbly, Holmes turned around and nodded. He wiped a hand across his mouth and shuffled towards his bedroom while the doctor went to his coat, removing the parcel he'd bought from the chemist.

The detective settled into bed and accepted the soporific readily. Holmes engaged in none of his usual commentary regarding the doctor's ministrations, which was perhaps an alarming development in itself.

In Holmes' silence, Watson's mind was left to circulate among his unanswered questions and suspicions. Despite feeling unwell, the detective was able to discern the frown creasing his companion's brow.

"My dear doctor, you must learn to hide your thoughts from your expressions. They betray you abominably."

Watson huffed, and a sleepy smile struggled to Holmes' mouth. The doctor shook his head. "Later, Holmes. For now, just get some sleep." He made sure the curtains were shut before he closed the door of Holmes' bedroom.

He wandered toward his chair. He did not sit, but stood, bracing himself against the back with one hand, and rubbing his face with the other.

For a long two minutes, the doctor did nothing but stand, his thoughts, in their concern for Holmes, tumbling over one uncertainty after another. Eventually, although it pained him to do it, he opened his eyes and fixed a stare upon the top drawer of Holmes' desk.

His legs moved of their own volition, and quite before he realized he was doing it, he'd turned the key in the lock and opened the drawer. Inside laid the usual trinkets. And untouched remained the Morocco case.