A/N Serious discussion of depression ahead

I looked at the clock on the mantle as it rang three o'clock. That was all? Only three in the afternoon? When would this interminable day end?

There had been no clients, no inquiries sent through the post. Even Lestrade seemed able to handle himself without my assistance today. Without work, the day stretched long.

My eyes lingered on my violin, where I had thrown it aside after it failed to do what work ordinarily would: occupy my mind. I gazed over all my books, volumes on music, crime, history, philosophy and a few of my own authorship on prominent criminals and the finer points of detection. It seemed too much effort to move myself to go get one of these books, especially when it would solve nothing. When I had finished the book, I would still have no case. I would still be rotting away here with nothing of importance to devote myself to.

There was a knock at the door, and I looked up. Watson? Is that you? I hoped it was him. His rounds did not usually take him longer than this, and the sight of another person would be soothing, for once. A reminder that outside these walls there was still some kind of life.

"Afternoon, Holmes," Watson said with a smile as he walked in. I watched as he took in the clutter on the floor, where I had tried and failed to distract myself during the day. He looked surreptitiously at the mantle, and his expression brightened when he saw the Moroccan case still there, unopened. I had thought about it more than once, but then I thought how pointless even that was. It was only a balm for this existence, rendered meaningless without work.

"I hope your day was more productive than mine," I said, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. There was hardly any trace of mud on his shoes, but his limp was not so pronounced that he had to have taken a cab home due to pain. Then I saw the corner of a menu reading "Sp-" sticking out of his pocket. Not his rounds, then. Obviously a place far enough away that he was forced to take a hansom home, but not business related, for he certainly would not have gone to such expense. Ahh. Of course. I knew what it was.

"You have taken Miss Morstan to lunch," I said. "At the new restaurant Spencer's, if I am not mistaken." He and I had discussed going on several occasions, and no doubt he grew tired of waiting.

"Holmes, must you insist on knowing everything I do?" Watson asked tiredly, hanging up his coat. "It was a lovely meal."

"Watson, your everyday habits are so easily read, they hardly serve as practice for my powers," I said. Why wouldn't he simply leave? From having wanted his return, now all I wanted was to be alone again. Watson could never understand what it was like when there was no work. I barely understood it myself; I only knew that when I was unoccupied, these black thoughts threatened to overwhelm me, turning all that was once good in my life to mindless boredom.

Watson simply shook his head and went upstairs to his own room, I assumed to remember the undoubtedly better company of Miss Morstan. I could not find fault with him; I did not much want to associate with myself either at the moment.

Unfortunately, one cannot escape oneself.

The next day was Saturday, and as such Watson remained at home, doing some reading and answering his correspondence. I envied his ability to occupy himself, and wondered that he seemed immune to the ennui and pointlessness of life that plagued me.

I said little all morning, not stirring myself even to answer Watson's inquiries. After a time he gave up, which is what I wanted him to do, although when he stopped the sitting room was so silent I almost wished for an attempt on my life. It would at least occupy my time and my mind.

"Holmes, won't you eat something?" Watson asked. I groaned aloud; was it only time for luncheon? "You are far too thin, Holmes. Come, some food will do you good."

"Can't you see it, Watson?" I burst out, fed up with the lack of anything to do and such mundane company. "What is the purpose of eating if there is only to be more of this ahead of me?" I gestured around the room. "Are you so dense that you cannot see it?"

Watson very quietly set his napkin down, and I could tell he was angry. I did not regret what I had said, I truly meant every word. I could see no purpose in existing with nothing to occupy me. I deliberately did not look at him, the door closing being the only sign that he had left.

I sighed, the thought that I might drift off to sleep the only hope I had of getting through this day.

I heard Watson return some hours later. It was already dark outside, and I did not even have to look at him to know he had spent the afternoon in his club. The distinctive odor of ships tobacco clung to his clothes, as it was the most popular form among the retired army surgeons who made up most of the members of his club. He must still have been angry, although I felt rather than saw that he came over the settee to check on me. I pretended to be asleep.

The next morning, Watson had obviously overcome his anger, because he smiled when he came down to breakfast. Then his smile faltered. "Holmes, did you go to bed at all last night?"

"I can sleep just as well on the settee, Doctor," I said warningly, lest he thought he was going to diagnose me. Actually, I meant that I could sleep just as badly. My mind had raced throughout the night, going all sorts of places I would rather not think about in the absence of a problem to solve.

"Well, then you must eat something," Watson implored. "You ate almost nothing yesterday."

I groaned, "Please, stop, Watson." You do not understand what this does to me.

"If you say so, Holmes," Watson said sadly, going back to his newspaper. He left me alone the rest of the day, asking only once if he could use the desk to make some notes in a medical journal.

"Why do you need my permission?" I asked irritably. "You may use whatever you please; it is your sitting room too."

"I would, only you left your latest monograph on it," Watson said, gesturing towards the piles of papers I had left on the desk, waiting for me to edit them. "'The distinctive texture and make of shoe leather'?" he asked.

"You would be surprised what subjects are useful to know in the field of detection," I answered. In truth, I had grown bored with the monograph almost immediately, unable to see the purpose of writing yet another treatise no one but myself would read. "You may move that wherever you wish," I added carelessly.

"Holmes, are you sure you are all right?" he asked. "I have seen you in black moods before, but never this bad."

I curled up on the settee without giving him an answer, and after a time he settled down to his writing. I resisted the urge to laugh. You have seen nothing yet, Watson.

Several agonizing hours later, in which the only sound was Watson's pen scratching at the paper, and my only thought was how much I wished something would happen, and then remembering that even if something did happen, it would only end and leave me in the same state I was already in. I curled up even tighter on the settee, wondering if this was truly all there was to life. Surely it could not be any worse to be dead? At least then my mind might quiet down.

"Holmes? Holmes, my dear fellow, are you all right? You were breathing rather heavily. I was afraid you were working yourself into a state." I looked up to see Watson watching me, the worry etched all over his face.

I shook my head, unable to lie anymore to him. "Why?" I asked. "Why do you stay, Watson? Surely I cannot be any form of suitable company for you."

Watson sighed and brought the armchair over so he was sitting next to me, "I stay, Holmes, because I will not leave you alone to face these black moods. And in the hopes that when it passes, we might go for a walk." He patted my shoulder gently. "And it will pass, as it always does. All in its own time, my dear Holmes."

He quietly got up and went back to his writing, and I lay back on the settee, watching him curiously.

Thank God for him. How I was supposed to manage without him was a mystery even I could not solve.

A/N I just want to thank you, N J Dryad, for reviewing so much of this story, and my other larger Holmes story, The View from the Diogenes. Your comments were always insightful and helpful!