For All Our Sakes

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Watson

The next morning, I went down to the sitting room, where my friend was already seated in his chair by the fire and appeared to be doing his very best to fill the room with tobacco smoke. Waving my hand in front of my face and coughing, I crossed the room as quickly as was possible taking into account the limited visibility, and threw open a window. I inhaled deeply; the chillier-than-usual April breeze was far more pleasant than the toxic fumes in the sitting room. Holmes was apparently too deep in thought (or the smoke was too thick) to notice my presence, so I sat down at the table alone and rang for my breakfast.

A short while later Mrs. Hudson brought up enough breakfast for both Holmes and myself, and informed me that my friend had "been smoking that infernal pipe of his as though his very life depended upon making all of the air in the flat unbreathable!" all morning, and had refused to take any breakfast. She went on to mutter something about his being "nearly impossible to deal with, Lord save the man!"

I promised the nettled woman that I would do my best to convince him to eat something. She gave a fierce you-had-better-follow-through-with-that look, which transitioned smoothly into a gentle smile before she withdrew from the room.

"Holmes," I said from my seat at the table. I received no response. "Holmes!" I repeated his name more loudly, causing him to jump and turn his head so quickly that I feared he would snap something in his neck.

"What do you want?" he growled after snatching his pipe from his mouth, annoyed at being startled out of his thoughts. He looked generally unkempt, and did not appear to have slept or shaved. This struck me as an odd combination, as the former was common while he was on a case, and the latter when he was without one.

"Have some breakfast," I said, carefully keeping my tone somewhere between coaxing and chipper.

Holmes's scowl deepened, but any effect it might have had was spoiled by his childishly pathetic whine of, "I don't want breakfast."

"I'm not going to sit here and watch you starve yourself," I replied calmly, feeling oddly like a father addressing an irresponsible son. "Eat." I emphasised my words by spearing a sausage with my fork.

"No," he replied with an air of finality and turned his back to me.

I decided to try a different tactic. Heaving a dramatic sigh, I planted my elbow on the table and rested my chin in my hand. "Holmes, please don't make me eat by myself again," I said, making my voice as pathetically miserable as I could. He sat up a little straighter, and I could picture the indecision in his grey eyes, though he was facing the other direction. This tactic had served me fairly well in the years before my marriage, and had worked even more efficiently after my friend's return nearly a year previously.

Then his shoulders slumped again and he made no reply.

Frowning, my gaze fell back onto my plate of sausage and eggs. What on earth was upsetting Holmes so much? This was worse than the darkest depressions he had fallen into since his return. There were many times he would act like this before my marriage, but they were all caused by a lack of mental stimulation, which he did not lack now. Again, my mind was drawn to the strange circumstances of his black mood.

If only the stubborn man would simply tell me what was upsetting him!

I left the flat around eight to run a few errands that I had been putting off for far too long, and when I returned—just before luncheon—Mrs. Hudson informed me that Holmes had left about half an hour after I did, and had not told her where he was going or when he intended to return.