Watson hesitated at the doorframe, squinting his eyes at the figure reclining on the sitting room settee and smoking a morning pipe.

It's Holmes. It's probably Holmes.

Or is it?

A few months ago, there would have been little doubt—there were a total of three people in this flat: him, Holmes, Mrs Hudson. It was a simple matter to differentiate between the two, and for once it didn't seem as if there was any potential for Watson to make a mistake. It simply was a relief to come home to no more guesswork and silent companionship by the fire.

That is, until Holmes told him about the Work and brought him on cases. Now different kinds of clients and children and officers constantly came in streams of too many faces to remember. It didn't seem to be so much a problem at first; that is, until he mistook a client for Holmes—when Holmes was in the same room himself.

Better safe than sorry; whoever it was had already taken note of him. "Good morning." A nice, neutral greeting.

"Ah, Watson, come in."

Holmes, definitely—apparently having just woken up, if his dressing gown and unkempt garments were anything to go by. "My hiatus has ended at last." With that he waved a telegram towards Watson with barely contained glee. "A client, and it seems a most promising problem."

Watson read it through once. "From a Mrs Hall… terribly urgent… murder… coming at 10—Holmes, it's already 9:30, shouldn't you start getting ready?"

"Patience, Watson, I promise you I will be presentable by the time she comes around." Holmes paused, as if in thought, and frowned at him. "Say, my dear man, are you ill?" he asked in an unusually gentle tone.

"No, not at all."

"A little tired, perhaps?"

"No, on the contrary, my practice has been quite light—but why, what's this all about?"

Holmes doesn't speak for a while. "You passed me yesterday, on your way to bed, and… well…" He broke out into a nervous laugh. "You acted quite strangely. I was quite concerned."

Last night? Passed by? Watson kept pulling a blank. "What?"

"Last night, by the stairs?"

"…what do you mean?"

Holmes paused a moment, quite confused. "I bid you goodnight, and you went 'Good night to you too, sir.' You do know you needn't be so formal with me anymore." He hesitated and added, "I believe we're past that stage already."

Something finally clicked in Watson's mind, a vague memory of bumping into someone on his way to bed—he'd assumed it was a client, or perhaps one of Holmes's Irregulars. "Oh." A small shot of fear gripped him. "I must have been exhausted, I didn't recognize you at all."

Holmes gazed at him and Watson got the feeling that he did not believe him, but to his relief Holmes dropped the subject.

"Would you be so kind to accompany me at Mrs Hall's arrival? The fairer sex is your domain, after all—and if I am right, this might turn out to be a narrative-worthy case."

At 10 sharp Holmes had positioned himself in his seat, appropriately clothed in his typical three-piece suit (if it didn't mess up his ability to identify him Watson would have given it more color). In a moment their client arrived.

She was a young lady, no more than 25, dressed in a simple beige dress with minimal decorations on the hem and the sleeves. She had rich dark hair that curled around her shoulders, tanned skin, and the most intense brown eyes. "Good morning, gentlemen. May I know which of you is Mr Holmes and which is Dr Watson?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague Dr Watson. Please, sit down. You are?"

"Ms Adelaide Hall." She took her seat on the settee. "Will you help me?"

"Your telegram certainly is intriguing." Holmes leant back in his chair and steepled his hands under his chin. "Please, tell us your story, and we will see how we may help you."

Ms Hall paused for a moment, a trifle uncomfortable perhaps, and Watson gave her an encouraging look. She faintly smiled back and began.

"I am a governess out in the countryside of the East End, taking care of a family with two children under my care. My employers are most kind to me, and often give me leave to do as I wish once a month to visit my relatives here in London. On these visits I met a sailor, Robert Walker, who became my fiancé." Her face twisted, and Holmes's gaze flickered to her. "He is the man who died today."

A heavy silence filled the room as Ms Hall paused to gather herself, and when she continued, she didn't meet their gazes anymore. "I went to him today, to confront him about the troubles that were plaguing him."

"What troubles?" Holmes asked.

"I am not completely sure, but I have an intimation that it is something about money. At any rate he didn't tell me anything—didn't want to worry me. I've offered him some of my savings—I would be able to earn them well back in a few years, but he would not hear of it." She grimaced and turned her face from Holmes. "Perhaps if I had been insistent he would have given in."

"And how did you find him?"

"I went to his house. It's not very far from the docks, and it is a quaint little place—it would have been ours, if this dastardly thing hadn't happened. I knocked on the door, but no one answered, and I was quite surprised when I found it open. I looked for him in the sitting room and the kitchen, then made my way up to the second floor.

"I called out to him again, and found his bedroom door slightly ajar. I thought he might be there, and when I opened it…" She clutches at her dress and shakes her head, unable to speak.

Holmes silently offered her a glass of water. "And the police?"

"I was afraid they might think I did it, but I did send a telegram to them on my way here. I thought of your stories, doctor, and realized that if there was one person who could help me, then it would be Mr Holmes. And so I went." A certain rigidness came back to her face as she took a small sip. "Will you help me?"

"Well, it certainly seems promising." Holmes rose from his seat and Ms Hall and Watson followed suit. "Do you have the address of Mr Walker's home?"

Watson offered his notebook and Ms Hall scribbled down the address. Holmes gave it one look and, satisfied, opened the door. "Allow us to ready ourselves, and rest assured that at least one of us will be present there perhaps a few hours after lunch."

Relief bloomed on Ms Hall's face and she all but took Holmes's hands in her gratitude. "You can come whenever you like. Thank you so very much."

"Excellent. Goodbye." Holmes waved Ms Hall away and shut the door, a twinkle in his eye. "Well, my dear Watson, what do you think of that?"

"It's certainly quite tragic."

Holmes clicked his tongue. "Oh, you and your romantic inclinations."

Watson would have protested if it was not for the sly smile Holmes gave him, and he can't help but give a smile of his own. He could preach the virtues of storytelling and entertainment some other day. "When do we leave?"

Something in his words gave Holmes pause, and there's an unnatural hesitance in Holmes's voice as he spoke. "Watson, would you come with me to East End?"

Why did he even need to ask? "Was that not the plan?"

"Well, yes, but…"

Watson frowned. Holmes knew very well that these cases had brought Watson some semblance of purpose and excitement in a life that could have just easily been filled with pain and anguish. Besides, hadn't he already told Ms… Ms… their client that they would come—the both of them?

Holmes sagged, apparently reading his frown for rejection. "Ah, that's all right, old chap. You need your rest, surely, and your patients—"

"I'm coming, Holmes."

A pause. "You do not have to if you do not desire to—"

"Of course I'm coming, Holmes. When have I refused you?"

Holmes murmured something under his breath, but smiled in relief. "We leave at 12."

Watson was left staring at him as he shut the door, a trickling feeling of guilt sinking in his chest.