If I had anticipated that my life at Baker Street would be strange, uncomfortable and austere, then I could not have been more mistaken. Despite my original impressions of him, Mr. Sherlock Holmes proved to be a most fascinating fellow: kind and polite, educated and urbane. He took an interest in me that was rather more than merely polite, but which seemed to stem from some vague impulse of friendship on his part. To be certain, there were times when he retired to his room for long hours, immersed in some sort of brooding reverie, and I knew enough to leave him be. I supposed that his room was the one place where he could safely channel his enormous intellect into the cases that were his livelihood.

Besides which, I had more than enough to keep me busy at the hospital, what with the fresh round of influenza patients. I considered opening a small practice, but discarded the idea for at least the immediate future. There was no way, with my meagre income, that I could possibly hope to entertain the prospect of my own practice--no way I could pay the rent required on such a property.

I came home early one evening, to find the flat ostensibly deserted. This was odd, since it was past six, and I knew that unless Holmes had other business, he would have long since returned to our lodgings. I laid my medical bag by the door and hung my coat and hat, stashed my walking stick in the large Chinese urn that Holmes kept for just that purpose.

The flat was as quiet as death. "Holmes? Are you in?" My own footsteps sounded eerily loud. I knocked gently on his bedroom door, eased it open a fraction. Oh, thank God, he was there! "Holmes, are you unwell? It's not like you to be sleeping at this hour." I'd been here for six months; I felt that I knew him well enough to judge his habits. "Wake up--" I touched his shoulder, and as I did so, my gaze travelled to the thick cord of Indian rubber that was knotted around his bicep. My reliable gaze then discerned the syringe that lay discarded on the bedside table, as well as the empty bottle... I picked it up and read the label: medically-purified cocaine, a seven-percent solution.

Cold prickles stood out on my scalp as I put the pieces together. Of course--his moodiness, the long periods of silence, his fractured emotions. He was a drug addict.

I turned and walked quickly out into the sitting-room, but not before I'd heard the bedsprings creak as he sat up. "Watson--"

I was sitting with a glass of port and a cigarette when he appeared, collarless, with a silk smoking-jacket belted around his slender waist. "I feel I should explain," he said. He was standing before me, but I didn't trust myself to look at him.

"There is nothing to explain, Holmes." I snapped my newspaper open, pretended to read it, although the print blurred before my eyes. I wondered why in God's name I should care so much what he did, but the truth was, I did care. Entirely too much for my own well-being.

"You don't quite understand." He sat on the sofa, directly adjacent to my chair, and lit himself a cigarette from out of the wooden box at his elbow. "You might at least give me a chance to explain," he said petulantly.

His clear grey eyes were very sad. Or at least, that's what it looked like. With that much cocaine in his system, I couldn't be entirely certain. "There's nothing to explain, Holmes. Obviously you use this..." Something stuck in my throat. "...obviously you..." I swallowed hard, tried again. "A person only uses drugs to subdue his demons."

He smiled: a thin, haunted smile. "Did you learn that in medical school, Watson?"

I slapped the newspaper down, leapt to my feet, my pulse hammering in my throat, my ears. "You ought to have told me, before I ever agreed to move in here, you ought to have given me at least some indication--"

"Indication of what?" He had risen to face me, his cigarette burning unheeded in the ashtray. "I don't see how it affects you; it isn't like I'm openly indulging in your presence!"

"How do you think it feels for me to come home of an evening and find you sprawled insensible--"

"--I was hardly 'sprawled insensible,' as you so inelegantly put it, Watson." His mouth twitched. "And it escapes me as to why you should care so much."

This left me utterly cold. "I should like to consider myself your friend," I said. It felt as if my face were frozen, and I was trying to force the words past my paralysed throat. "But I see you are a man without friends, a man who cannot make these kinds of human connections--" I dashed for the doorway, grabbed my coat and hat, retrieved my walking stick from the Chinese urn. "I'm going out, Holmes."

"God damn you, Watson!"

I slammed the door so hard that the frame rattled.

"Then go!" he shouted. Behind me, I heard him retreat into his bedroom and close the door.

---

I dined at the Westminster Club with Patrick Smythe, who'd just accepted a position in the north of England, and who would soon be leaving London for what seemed like a very long time. Truth be told, I was sad to see him go: we'd gone through medical school together, and had become very good friends. He was the only human connection that I had in this great, cold city; I would be at a loss for companionship, now.

"How is your flat-mate, what's his name, Holmes, is it?" Patrick poured me another glass of wine from the bottle at his elbow. "Funny sort of chap, isn't he? Rather queer, I've heard. Doesn't have any friends, keeps to himself."

My neck prickled. "What have you heard, exactly?"

Patrick smiled. "Don't get so upset, old boy. I'm not implying that the two of you are pals, just because you share a suite of rooms."

"Holmes is a very companionable chap, in his own way," I said, feeling vaguely irritated. "And quite intelligent," I added.

"But not much of a flat-mate, I take it?" Patrick's gaze was keen and penetrating; I wasn't sure quite what to make of it.

"I beg your pardon?" I thought about the six months that I'd spent with Holmes. I realised that, despite the tension of this evening, he'd been nothing but polite and civilised to me. He'd extended me several rather large kindnesses, as well-- including the loan of some three hundred pounds when I needed it most. And as often as I'd tried to make repayment to him, he'd refused it. 'Keep it, Watson,' he'd said, smiling in his inscrutable way. 'You may, after all need it to bury me or something.' I was never certain if he was joking or not.

"Well, I've heard people say--people who've known him--that he's brusque and uncivilised, not very educated... I'm almost sorry I recommended you to him; I should never have done."

I was beginning to get angry; I recognised it in the throbbing of my temples, the dark, furious pulse in the bottom of my belly. "Mr. Holmes is exquisitely civil to me... as for education, he has his Bachelor's degree from Cambridge. And he plays the violin most brilliantly--" As soon as I'd said it, I realised how ridiculous I'd made Holmes sound; it was as if he were some thwarted music-teacher with ambitions to the London Symphony. I could have kicked myself stupid, right then and there.

"He plays the violin?!" Patrick burst out into laughter. "I say, Watson, this is fodder for conversation, indeed!" He leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming with something very like a subtle cruelty. "And what other amusements does he furnish? Tell me--does he have a performing monkey or some such? Or does he juggle balls like a seal?" He sipped his wine delicately, smiling. "Oh, this is news! Can you imagine how the others will react when they hear--"

"I have to go," I said, abruptly. I dropped my napkin on the table, along with a banknote, and collected my hat, gloves, and stick.

"Why are you rushing off so soon?" He tapped the table. "You're barely finished your dinner. Oh, Watson, I was only joking--just having you on. Come back and finish dinner with me."

"I think not," I said, stiffly. I suddenly saw him as he was: a silly, spoilt rich man's son, a ridiculous poseur with a sort of upper-class snobbishness... he was not even the half of Holmes. "Mr. Holmes is a very good friend to me, and a good companion. I would thank you not to insult him in my presence."

"A companion?" He raised his eyebrows, grinning; his white teeth glinted in the cruel lamplight. "Of what sort, Watson? Or is he one of those unnaturals, you know, like Oscar Wilde?"

"I don't care if he is," I said. "He is my friend." I buttoned my coat. "Goodbye Patrick, and good luck in the North. God knows, they could use your sort up there."

I turned on my heel and left him. I knew where I was going. I was going home.

---

Holmes was reading by lamplight when I arrived, having just finished supper. The remains of his meal lay on the dining-table: some bread and cheese, several slices of cold roast beef, and half a carafe of port. He had just bathed, judging by the steam emanating from the bathroom, and was dressed in his smoking-jacket and a clean pair of trousers, a blinding white shirt. He was collarless, his shirt open at the neck.

"Watson! There you are indeed, so lately returned from the wilds of London." He closed his book and gazed up at me; his grey eyes were clear and untainted by drugs. "How was your supper? I take it you dined at the Westminster Club? Ah, yes, with your friend the doctor, Patrick Smythe."

"How the hell did you know that?"

"Watson, you are as predictable in your habits as you are in your choice of friends. You dined at the Westminster Club on--" He rose and came towards me, bending ever-so-slightly from the waist, his elegant nostrils twitching, "--roast beef and potatoes. You drank red wine, French, I think. And you smoked three cigarettes while waiting for your meal." He grinned, laid his hand on my arm. "Am I correct?"

I smiled, feeling my whole being relax into his presence. "Of course you are. You are always correct, Holmes."

"And I see you have had a falling-out with your friend, Dr. Patrick Smythe." He selected two cigarettes from the box, lit them both and handed one to me. The end was warm, still slightly damp from the moisture of his mouth, and I shivered... perhaps Patrick had supposed right, and Holmes was...

"Yes."

"You wonder how I know this. I know this because you always dine at the Westminster Club at precisely seven o'clock, and are seldom home before nine. It is now a quarter past eight." He guided me to a chair. "Sit, my dear Watson, and have a glass of port with me. Mrs. Hudson shall be up directly to clear away the supper dishes; I hope you don't mind a little untidiness, just this once."

We smoked and sipped in a companionable silence for a few moments, during which I was aware of Holmes' eyes on me, his clear grey gaze assessing me. "Something is troubling you, Watson."

I stirred. "Patrick said--"

"Patrick does not approve of your being here. His brother, Ronald--" Holmes' upper-class accent gave the "R" a gentle rolling lilt, "--does not feel that I am a suitable companion for you."

"That's right." I gazed at him. "I'm telling you, Holmes, he was utterly nasty."

"And you defended me, Watson?" His sculpted mouth quirked at the corners, drew into a smile.

"Of course." I had accepted him, I realised. He was my friend, as surely as anyone had ever been my friend. "I won't have you slandered in front of the members of the Westminster Club..." I smiled at him, my whole heart in the gesture. "I won't have you slandered anywhere."

I remembered the day I'd first seen him, standing tall and elegant in his riding habit... I remembered the way my heart pounded when I looked at him, how everything within me strained towards him.

"You are too kind," he whispered, and something warm and beautiful rose in his eyes. "My dear, dear Watson..." He seemed on the verge of saying something, but there was Mrs. Hudson, bustling in to clear the tray.

"Have you eaten, Doctor Watson? And would you like a plate of supper?" She smiled at me, the heavy tray balanced between her delicate hands.

"I have dined, Mrs. Hudson--" I moved to take the tray from her. "Allow me to carry this down to the kitchen for you."

"Not at all, not at all." She glanced towards Holmes, sitting like a statue in his chair. "Everything satisfactory, Mr. Holmes?"

"The nectar of the gods, Mrs. Hudson, as always." He smiled as she moved out into the passage, shut the door behind her.

"Now, Watson." He was on his knees before my chair, and it alarmed me, but I saw with relief that he was merely settling himself on the floor--a favorite position from which to think and postulate. I'd found him sitting--often lying--on the floor more than once since we'd been here.

"Yes, Holmes."

"There is an intriguing case..."

I knew what he was going to ask. "How much time off should I request?"

"Ah, Watson!" He turned on his knees to beam at me. "You don't mind?"

"Of course not."

"Five days, I should think." He was leaning on the sofa on his elbows, gazing at me with those assessing grey eyes. "Five days to complete our task and return triumphant to London!"

"You're very sure that you're going to solve this case."

"Of course. I am very sure about everything."

Oh, no, I thought, you are not at all sure about the true nature of my affection for you. Not sure at all. Patrick Smythe, I thought, Patrick Smythe had come rather perilously close to the truth for my taste... "Five days, then," I said. "I'll put in for it with the hospital tomorrow."

"Oh, Watson, tomorrow is too late! I should like to leave by the 8:05 from King's Cross station tomorrow! Get into your coat and go now--I'll come with you."

Standing in the passage, he leaned close to me, and I caught the clean, enticing scent of him. Something stirred, deep inside my body, and I reached for both his arms, drew him roughly towards me, so that our faces nearly touched.

And then I lost my nerve. I had wanted to, oh, how I had wanted to kiss him, right then and there, but something in his eyes prevented me. Not loathing or disgust, or anything so base or vile.

He was afraid.

And I could not force him where he was not prepared to go.

---

The train ride to Yorkshire was cold and uncomfortable. Holmes had seen to it that we had a private compartment, with a pull-down bunk if either of us should desire to sleep, but my mind was churning too much for me to even think of resting, and Holmes, with his characteristically high energy, slept very little at even the best of times. I wrapped myself in my overcoat and curled up against the window, cushioned myself as best I could on the hard compartment seats.

Holmes, I'd noticed, had packed his syringe and bottles of cocaine, along with the tourniquet of Indian rubber, at the bottom of his case. Not for the first time, I wondered what in his nature drove him to abuse drugs as he did. Not for the first time, I schemed as to how I might best draw him out, to discern if I could what demons he was trying to subdue in this manner.

"Are you comfortable, Watson?" He smiled at me over the top of his book and offered a sip of brandy from his silver hip-flask. Holmes never travelled without it, and I had to admit, it made good medicinal sense. Not to mention the spiritual lift that a discreet tipple afforded, in the midst of this cold and damp.

"Thanks very much, Holmes." I took a hearty swallow and handed the flask back to him, felt the brandy create a warm pool in my stomach. "What are you reading there?"

"London Times," he replied. "The details of the case, Watson." He'd told me the bare details of it: an earl's wife, found murdered in her bed, seemingly strangled with such force that her larynx had been completely crushed. The earl seemed the most likely suspect, at least to my mind, but Holmes had other ideas. The presence of a peacock feather, at the scene of the crime, seemed to set up some sort of sympathetic resonance, and appealed to his great intelligence... "There is far more here than meets the eye, Watson," he said. "That feather--that feather--is the clue by which we shall trap our erstwhile criminal."

"Holmes, I hardly think--a single feather?" I huddled into my coat and shivered. "Do you not feel the cold?" I asked. "It's at least five below zero in here!"

"Here--" He passed me a blanket, a ratty knitted affair that he often carried about the flat with him. I'd seen it draped across the foot of his bed, and I wondered where it had come from. It certainly didn't belong to Mrs. Hudson, whose elegant needlework graced our flat--besides which, it was absolutely filthy, and of some great age, judging by its frayed condition. But it was warm, and I accepted it. It smelled like Holmes: a hint of some exotic cologne, heat and spices, overlaid with a faint patina of Turkish tobacco.

"Where did you get this?" I indicated the blanket, draped about my shoulders like a prayer shawl. "It's not Mrs. Hudson's." He was silent. "Is it?"

"No, Watson, it is not Mrs. Hudson's." He snapped the newspaper, pretended to be engrossed, although he wasn't actually reading.

"Then whose is it?" I fingered the frayed edges of it. "It's very old ... and filthy, Holmes. You ought to have it washed. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson could put it in with our usual laundry."

"It belonged to my mother." He dropped any pretense of reading, laid the newspaper across his slender thighs, and stared out the window at the grey landscape, the flat fields that passed before his gaze.

"She knitted it for you?" I sat up a little straighter, conscious of the delicate emotional position in which I'd placed him. This was the first time that Holmes had imparted any sort of personal information to me, and I understood that it had cost him. I wanted to make certain that this fragile trust, which he had so wholeheartedly placed in me, was not shattered by an inadvertent word.

"Yes. Years ago, when I was a boy."

I smiled. Holmes made it sound as if he'd been a boy when Adam still roamed the earth, when I knew for a fact that he was barely thirty years of age. Younger than me by a couple of years, still a young man.

"Do you see your family often, Holmes?"

He turned from the window, his grey gaze haunted and distant. "My father is dead." He fingered the pages of the newspaper, rustling them under his hand with a sound like falling leaves. "My brother Mycroft you of course have met..." His eyes clouded, his face set and mask-like.

"Holmes?" I probed him gently, not wanting to frighten him off this line of conversation. I realised that I so wanted to know him, to truly know him... I decided that I admired him very much, that there was a true affection for him nestled deep within my soul--so deeply that I could not admit it fully, not even in my innermost thoughts, at the moments that I was most completely alone.

"My mother is in Bedlam." His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile that flickered on his sculpted features and vanished as quickly as it had come. "A thread of madness in the family, Watson--that's something for your medical mind to absorb and digest!"

I felt a leaden weight settle in my stomach. "I'm so sorry," I said. "How old..." I couldn't make my voice obey me; it seemed intent on quavering and shifting, as if I were on the cusp of tears. "How old were you when she--"

"I was six. My brother Mycroft, as you will remember, is some years older than I. He had left home long since. It was just Father, Mother, and ... Mrs. Russell."

"Mrs. Russell?" I searched my memory for that name, came up with nothing. "An aunt?"

"My nanny." His beautiful mouth puckered; he was as near to tears as I had ever seen him. "You wonder, Watson, why I indulge myself, why I must--" He drove his gloved fist into his mouth, blinking furiously.

I reached across and laid my hand on his arm. He recoiled as if I'd struck him, flattened himself against the wall of the compartment. Slowly, his gaze resolved itself on me, and he realised what he'd just done. "You mustn't touch me," he whispered. "Not now, not ever."

There was something he wasn't telling me. Something so very important that it had shaped the whole of his psyche. I stared at him, gazed deep into his grey eyes, swimming pools of agony.

And the conductor called our stop.