Chapter Text
I have always documented my thoughts and my adventures. Some of them were meant to be published. Some of them to remember and treasure. Some of them to convince myself that Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was not mere a figment of my imagination and that our adventures had indeed happened. But this story does not belong in my archive, nor in the Strand. I do not think that mister Doyle would encourage me to publish this. No, this story is one for in the fireplace. I only wrote it because writing is my habit, it is what I do. About all that happens in my life. And writing it down makes it true.
If you, by chance, happen to be in possession of these documents, then I have been either brave or foolish. Or perhaps both.
And I can only ask you, dear reader, not to judge Mr. Holmes and myself, nor our associates. We all are more than just this story.
The LORD shall judge the people: judge me, O LORD, according to my righteousness, and according to mine integrity that is in me.
Psalms 7:8
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It was a dreadful night, in which I found myself in my chair by the fire, waiting for a certain consulting detective. The man had disappeared almost a forth-night ago,
only to return home during the hours I was making house calls or sleeping. I may not be a master in the science of deduction,
but even this simple doctor can draw conclusions from half eaten toast and the smell of recently burned tobacco. I have always allowed Holmes his strange ways,
but avoiding me for twelve days was where I drew the line. Not that the weeks previous to these had been better. After Holmes' initial enthusiasm about my return to Bakerstreet, he fell into a black mood, the size of it greater than he'd even suffered in my company. I blamed it on sentiment over the grant adventures he had had in my absence during the great hiatus. A return to domestic life in a fog-covered city, living with a widower that had long since said farewell to the glory days of his life.
Oh, how hard it must be on him!
His behavior was different from what I remembered, the cold, analytic brain had given way to one that was obviously in doubt. The mask that his face could be,
was showing cracks. The self-confident character I had known glanced over his shoulder frequently.
He flinched when I spoke to him, so unobserving had he become, so imprisoned by his mind. He would avoid my eyes but when I caught him watching me,
I couldn't help but notice the heart-wrenching look in them. Who knows what dark thoughts lay behind these pale grey eyes. I can only guess.
I believe that I must have fallen asleep for I startled awake when I heard the creaking of the stairs. Step number 14 to be precise, as Holmes ones mentioned this to me.
The man himself opened the door and halted mid-step when the still burning fire caught his eye.
''Watson.." He sighed, 'Why are you still up and about?' Like it was me who was behaving oddly.
'Why are you avoiding me?' I asked, maybe a bit too straightforward, but any rudeness could be blamed on the lack of sleep.
'My dear Watson! I am doing no such thing!' This joke of a conversation gave my friend enough time to flee into his room and lock the door. Tired as I was, I retreated to mine.
'No use in starting a fuss at this hour', were my last wake thoughts.