Creative rights to Sherlock Holmes and his universe belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

KS and BCB: For KCS, our cherished sister in Christ. Proverbs 17:17.

Portrait, part 2

Watson nodded and they took two seats nearby on the left end of the back row, exactly three rows behind the old man that had been so irate earlier. In a short while the concert began, and the quartet started to play Handel's "Water Music."

Holmes relaxed visibly as the music hit his keen ears, a smile spreading slowly onto his face. The fingers of his left hand tapped against his knee along with the rhythm and his eyelids drooped dreamily over his eyes. Rarely did the great detective seem so human, so passionate, as when he was listening to music.

Watson listened with pleasure, but he discreetly observed his friend all the while. Holmes gave a little sigh of happiness at one cadence, at which Watson could not help but smile. The man adored music. It was almost as if when he heard it, it lived and breathed. It came alive, and his soul with it. It was one of the things Holmes and Watson could share equally, though in this perhaps Holmes was the more passionate.

In the midst of the music there was a sound that broke into Holmes's enjoyment. A quiet muttering had disturbed the concert, and Holmes's brow furrowed. His grey eyes opened and he scanned the crowd, looking quite annoyed.

"Watson," he whispered, leaning over to his companion, "Do you hear those people? It's the old man and the younger man with him..."

Watson's brows drew together, "What?" he asked, glancing about.

"That old man, up three rows," replied the detective. The doctor followed Holmes's gaze to the old man, and his brow rose considerably.

"He's made some young friends," he remarked as he observed a younger man and a young child with him.

"I believe they are related..." said Holmes as he listened intently, "The younger one is his son, if I can hear correctly... I think they're talking about the boy." Watson seemed curious and slightly confused as he watched the men.

"What has that to do with anything?"

"They're interrupting the concert!" Holmes frowned, whispering a bit louder as his annoyance grew, "I want to know what's so important that it cannot wait."

Watson blinked. That did not seem so very important, but then again, Holmes hated it whenever his own music was disturbed by the slightest thing. He strained his ears in attempt to listen as well.

As Holmes eavesdropped, his annoyed countenance suddenly grew interested. "Watson..." he whispered, "I think these people may have some relation to Daniels."

"What?" Watson gasped in surprise, leaning forward to watch the old man and the younger man talk.

"I'm nearly certain of it..." Holmes continued, "The elder and younger gentlemen are speaking of the boy's father. He was shot last night..."

Watson's eyes widened, "Are you sure? It could simply be a coincidence."

"Look at the boy. Don't you see it?" Watson looked at the boy studiously, his eyes squinting as he tried to picture Daniels and compare his features with those of the child.

"Perhaps...?" he muttered in reply, "I cannot be certain of it," he shook his head, "but that is too great a coincidence."

"I'm nearly certain of it. The boy must be his son…"

Watson looked at the boy intently and noted there were some similar aspects. In fact, there were several.

"Good heavens..."

Holmes sighed, his brow furrowing as he sat back again in his chair, the concert and skilled cellist forgotten.

Watson turned to Holmes, slightly confused. "Holmes—" he began, but was quieted as the person in front of him turned around with a silencing glare.

Watson settled back, stiffening slightly at the fierce gaze of the man. He looked up at Holmes, but he had a faraway look in his eyes. A grand pause in the music drew the doctor's attention back to the concert, and he tried to listen. But his gaze and thoughts kept returning to the young boy three rows ahead. Holmes too, seemed to no longer be focused on the music. The beauty of the strings had not diminished, but Holmes's perception of them had, as they now darkened his soul rather than giving it light.

The concert seemed to move quickly for the both of them, lost in thought as they were. It therefore startled them when applause rang out and the audience began to stand. Watson blinked and looked up at Holmes bewilderedly.

"Intermission," explained the detective.

"Ah, of course..." said Watson flatly.

Holmes stood, towering over the still seated doctor. "Excuse me, Watson, but I need to go smoke," he said distantly, and he began to make his way out through the bustling crowd.

Watson also stood, following quickly. "Holmes…" he called, trying to keep his eye on his friend and not bump into people.

Holmes stopped and turned, "Hm?"

Watson finally caught up with him and stopped, opening his mouth to speak, but he could not think of anything to say.

While they stood silently, lost in thought, a young child broke free of the crowd and ran straight into Holmes's legs, nearly falling backward at the impact. A moment later a dapper young gentleman followed, obviously chasing the boy. Holmes recognized both of them as the people who were with the old gentleman.

The young man took the small boy—who only could have been four or five years of age at the most—by the wrist and looked apologetically at Holmes.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the man, "but he just got away from me."

"It's quite all right, no harm done," said Holmes, inclining his head and drawing on the cigarette.

Suddenly the elderly man from before appeared from the crowd behind the young man, and his eyes went wide at the sight of Holmes and Watson.

"So it's you two again, is it!?" he asked angrily. Watson blinked, and moved a step closer to Holmes.

"Father…?" the younger man said, looking at the old man then back to the two strangers in puzzlement.

"Good day again, sir," said Holmes cordially.

"It was that fellow!" said the old man, jabbing a long bony finger in Holmes's face, "who insulted your sister earlier!" He raised his stick menacingly, and Watson's eyes widened and he stepped protectively in front of his friend.

The young man's brow furrowed deeply, his eyes looking a little less puzzled and friendly, "That chap?"

"I did no such thing," said Holmes. "I merely made an observation that you and your daughter were having difficulties." The great detective did not look daunted in the least, ignoring Watson's warning glances.

"You have no right to intrude upon our personal affairs, sir!" The old man stepped closer, yelling in Holmes's face. People began to stop and watch the unfolding scene.

"Father..." muttered the younger man, glancing around uncomfortably at the onlookers.

"I am sorry, sir," said Holmes, "but I did not realize at the time that your daughter was grieving."

"You...?! How do you know that?!" the old man yelled, looking decidedly suspicious. Holmes put on his best soothing air, speaking in the voice Watson heard him so often use with his agitated clients.

"I heard you and your son talking during the concert. You have my sympathies," he said, looking down at the little boy, then back at the old man.

The old man took a step back. He looked undecided for a moment, teetering between incredulous and angry. He settled on angry, brandishing his heavy wooden stick. Watson firmly held his stance, wishing no harm to befall his companion.

"Father," interjected the younger man, "do calm down! You're making a spectacle of yourself!"

The old man continued to eye Holmes suspiciously, "I don't want your fake pity!"

Watson took a brave step toward the irate man, wanting to defend his friend's motives. "If you would only give him a moment to explain, he could tell you of his involvement and you would understand that his feelings are sincere!"

"Watson..." said Holmes, a bit surprised at Watson's behaviour.

"What are you talking about?!" the old man snarled, advancing towards Watson.

Watson began to raise his stick in defence, but Holmes stepped forward quickly and confidently to quench the fires of the building ill will.

"Your daughter...her husband was a Mr. Daniels, was he not?" said the detective.

The old man's eyes went wide in shock, "How do you know this?! You...you are a wizard!" His anger seemed to fade a bit as he stared wide-eyed at Holmes. Watson was still wary, glancing back at his friend questioningly. The young man went to his father's side with the small boy still in tow, placing a calming hand on his arm.

"Hardly that," Holmes replied. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. I was there when your son-in-law was murdered." Watson was surprised at the coolness with which his friend delivered the words.

The man looked bewildered as the name suddenly triggered a memory. "Not...the private detective?"

"Yes," said Holmes as Watson moved back to stand beside him. "Your son-in-law was a very fine policeman, Mister…?"

"Phillips... John Phillips," the man stuttered. He suddenly remembered his companions, "And this is my son Richard and my grandson Samuel…" The small boy looked up at the great, tall figure of Sherlock Holmes, wiping a snotty nose with the back of his free hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Holmes," said Richard Phillips. Holmes wordlessly shook the hand of the young man, his attention elsewhere.

"Yes, Mr. Phillips," Holmes earnestly spoke to the elder. "Mr. Daniels was as fine a constable as I've ever seen. My sympathies are with you and your daughter."

The old man slowly lowered his stick and stepped forward contritely. "I apologize for my outburst...it's just..." the man swallowed hard, fighting back a sudden onset of tears. Richard patted his father's shoulder comfortingly.

Watson nodded sympathetically and extended his hand to the grieving man, who shook it despondently. "We're sorry for your loss," he said gravely.

"Thank you young man," John Phillips sighed. "It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for my dear Lydia. She has to raise Samuel all by herself..." He paused as voice broke, "I'm too old to be raising children...and she's too young to do it alone." His tired gaze fell to the ground.

Richard watched little Samuel as he stared inquisitively at a bug on the grass. "We brought him out to-day to give his mother some time alone," he explained. "He...doesn't quite understand it yet."

Watson looked sadly at Samuel, a distant look coming to his eyes to match the other men's, "He'll have to grow up much faster than he ought. It's a very difficult thing, losing a parent..." The elder Phillips ground the end of his stick into the thick grass.

"It isn't fair. Jack should have been more careful," he said, his eyes darkening, "I warned Lydia against marrying a police officer, and now look where it's gotten her!" he burst, turning to Richard unsteadily.

"She did love him, father..." was the young man's reply. He seemed unsure, as if he was at least a little inclined to what his father was saying.

"Yes..." John Phillips sighed. Then he suddenly planted his stick into the ground, his anger resurfacing, "And now she'll suffer all the more for it. My poor sweet girl..." he gave a final miserable sigh, and turned and stalked away, leaving his stick planted firmly in the ground.

Richard watched his father go back to their seats, a pained look crossing his fair face. He turned back and took up his father's stick, looking to Holmes and Watson. "I'm sorry for his behaviour," he sighed, "It's just that, well, he always favoured my sister a little bit."

"Say no more," Watson nodded his understanding, "I have never been a parent, but it must be a terrible feeling, thinking your child is suffering," he turned his gaze down to the oblivious Samuel. The younger Phillips followed Watson's gaze and drew a shaky but determined breath.

"Well, I'm going to try to help her out as much as possible with him. Though it may not be much..." he said, looking at Holmes with a suddenly curious gaze. "How...did Mr. Daniels die?"

Watson swallowed and looked at Holmes uneasily.

The detective sighed thoughtfully, "Well, we were raiding a house to capture some counterfeiters, and I'm afraid that Daniels was the first man they saw."

"Ah...I see..." Richard said, looking absently at his nephew. Watson looked at Holmes, and realizing that he had said all he was going to, elaborated on the situation.

"We had thought the men we were after weren't expecting us. But apparently they had anticipated our moves. Your brother-in-law went inside the house first," he paused abruptly, uncertain about continuing until Richard looked up and stared at him expectantly. "…and they shot him."

Holmes crossed his arms and looked down, nudging a small stone with his toe which was then picked up by the young boy.

"He always did seem to be the overly ambitious type..." Richard finally commented.

"Dedicated to his duty..." Watson agreed.

Just then, the string quartet began tuning for the second half of the concert. Holmes came out of his reverie, looking toward the musicians, but his gaze remained unfocused.

"Ah, if you'll excuse me Mr. Holmes, Doctor, I must return to my father," the young man said as he glanced back toward the rapidly filling seats. "It was a pleasure meeting you both. Thank you," he nodded, "Come Samuel, let's go and see Grandfather," he said, taking the boy's hand again.

"And you Mr. Phillips," Watson replied quietly, but the man had already re-entered the crowd. He stared to move forward himself, but paused as he realized his friend wasn't following. "Holmes?"

"Hm?" he looked at his friend, slightly started, "Ah... I don't care to hear the rest, Watson."

"But they've not played the third suite yet," he answered, confused.

A snapshot of this scene would have revealed it to be perfectly ordinary—people milling through the park, children throwing stones in the pond, and friends sharing each other's company. The string quartet was tuning, and concert-goers were returning to the rows of chairs set before the ornate gazebo. By all appearances, it was a perfectly happy picture. But a person who passes by the paintings in a gallery may only glimpse the overall. To truly understand the depth of art one must study the portrait.

The scene in the park also held two fated groups of people. An elderly father worrying for his daughter's future, a young man concerned for his father's well-being, and an oblivious child whose life was changed with the pulling of a trigger.

And then there were the two men, standing just ten feet apart, eyes locked in a stare that let them see through to each others' souls as the rest of the world continued around them. The scene was not as Arcadian as it appeared.

"I'd rather not stay."

Watson watched Holmes carefully, "Are you certain? I thought you were impressed with the cellist?" Holmes stared at the musicians for a long, silent moment broken only by the sound of the tuning strings.

"I have seen him before. Come, Watson."

Watson was somewhat surprised at his friend's sudden change of mood, but followed him nonetheless. He could not help but glance back at the unhappy Phillips family as they went. Suddenly Holmes's change in mood was clear to him.

Holmes kept his gaze straight ahead as they walked side by side, their pace even. Watson kept glancing at his friend, unsure what to say that could help the situation.

He held his tongue as he realized he would get nothing out of his friend, and they started back the way they had come. Holmes looked at the people around him, feeling tired all of a sudden. His failure had affected more than Daniels' wife, but his son as well, and even his wife's father and brother. It was such a simple little thing...and he had so foolishly forgotten to factor in that maybe, just maybe, the Carters knew he was onto them. He could almost feel Watson's concerned gaze, but he did not feel like dealing with his worry right now.

After walking for several minutes in the tense silence, Watson finally found the courage to speak.

"If I may..." he glanced at Holmes nervously, "I would like to deduce your thoughts. Holmes looked over at Watson, studying him intently.

"You can try," he sighed. Watson took a deep, unsteady breath.

"You are thinking about the case...and..." he paused for a very long time as he stared at his friend's steel countenance, "you think that your powers may be slipping."

The detective paused, missing one beat of his stick upon the pavement. A brief look of surprise flashed across his features as he looked at Watson.

"I...cannot deny the validity of your statement, my dear Watson," he said gravely. Watson was stunned to silence for several minutes at Holmes's admission. It was rare for that man to admit to any feeling, let alone that which was his greatest and likely only fear.

"I wish you wouldn't dwell upon it Holmes."

The detective sighed slowly, "I cannot help it, Watson. My mind will not let me forget it."

Watson gave him a pointed look. "But you could have done nothing differently. And I am growing tired of saying so," he replied with some irritation. Holmes ignored his friend and looked away, and Watson's face clouded with worry as silence once again fell over the two as they continued their trek.

Holmes resumed his steady, methodical pace, turning his thoughts even deeper inward. He was surprised, but not completely shocked that Watson had been able to tell what he was thinking. His grey eyes scanned across the building fronts and he glimpsed himself in the glass of a shop window. He wondered if his powers were slipping. Every time he failed in the slightest, he pondered the question...he could not help it, It was in his nature. It was an absolutely nightmarish thought that drove him into the blackest depressions...but he could not help but wonder. Was it possible?

And with each failure came even more worry... And a man had died this time. It was not the first time a man had died because of one of his errors, but he was usually not that familiar with the victim and those who would be affected by the death.

Watson looked at Holmes's sad face reflected in the shop window and his heart sank. He had hoped that the outing would have cheered him, and indeed it had seemed to. But there had been constant reminders of the case which had made his dark mood resurface.

He sighed and trailed after Holmes as they continued down the busy street. He thought it odd how quickly one's opinion of a place could change. Earlier the street had seemed alive with activity, people smiling and greeting each other as they went about their errands. But now all Watson could see were the downturned faces as people rushed silently past one another, avoiding eye contact with their fellow man as much as possible. It was similar to the way Sherlock Holmes had gone from joyful to miserable in an instant, with the one small reminder of the sorrow of the previous day.

The doctor stared at his friend's slumped shoulders and limp arms as they silently trudged along the sidewalk. He felt so helpless! He wanted nothing more than to help his friend, but the man was stubborn beyond belief and would not be moved except by total distraction. Watson thought ignoring emotion was a terrible way to deal with it, but it was the way Holmes chose. So if he were to help him, he would have to adopt the methods of his friend. But so far his efforts had resulted in utter failure.

The silence was hardly as comfortable as before, and it made the walk that had passed so quickly when going to the park seem to take much longer in returning. They still had not spoken to each other as finally they approached their door on Baker Street. Holmes drew the keys from his trouser-pocket and unlocked the door.

Watson put his stick by door and took off his gloves methodically, calling out to the landlady as he heard activity from inside the house.

"It's just us Missus Hudson, don't concern yourself." The lady herself came out of the kitchen, seeming a bit surprised to see them.

"I hadn't expected you gentlemen back so soon. Will you be wanting tea, or are you going out again?"

Watson looked at Holmes questioningly, but his gaze was blank and distracted. "Yes, tea would be nice Missus Hudson," he answered, turning back to her.

"What would you like with it?"

"Whatever you are having is fine. Don't trouble yourself over us." Mrs. Hudson gave him a disappointed and somewhat reproving look.

"I've a roast I can cook, if you don't mind waiting."

Watson glanced at Holmes again. He had hung his hat and was heading up the stairs, seeming to not hear them.

"That would be lovely, thank you Missus Hudson," the doctor sighed, follows Holmes up the stairs. He heard the kitchen door close as he reached the first floor and entered the sitting room behind his friend.

With single minded purpose, Holmes went promptly over to the mantelpiece, taking the cocaine-bottle and syringe in one hand, some tobacco, a pipe, and matches in the other, and tossed the lot onto the table beside his chair.

Watson stood at the door a moment, watching Holmes. A sad, pained look crossed his face and he slowly entered the room, moving toward his desk. He watched as Holmes shrugged off his jacket, falling into his armchair. The doctor sat down with a sigh and took up a pen to write in his journal.

Holmes took up the cocaine bottle and methodically drew out the proper amount, then turned the syringe over, making sure no air was left in it. He rolled up his left shirt cuff and looked carefully at the blood vessels, so clear beneath his pale, almost translucent skin.

Watson looked up then, and his jaw dropped and he paused with the pen halfway to the page as he saw what his friend was about to do.

"I am running low..." Holmes said thoughtfully, checking the needle once more before driving it home, "I shall have to purchase more..."

Watson's jaw slowly dropped, and then clenched shut as his shock and disbelief morphed to anger. He slammed his pen upon the desk and pushed chair back forcefully.

"No!" he cried emphatically, stomping over to stand in front of Holmes, "I will not allow it!" Holmes looked up at his friend disinterestedly.

"Won't allow what?"

"I won't allow you to take that...that drug any longer!" he said, his hazel eyes flashing.

"Why not?"

Watson's eyebrows shot up in enraged shock.

"Why?! Why!? I'm honestly surprised that it needs explanation, my dear Holmes!"He paused, taking a long hissing breath through teeth, "Because you are slowly killing yourself with it and as your doctor and as your friend I cannot permit it."

Holmes held the syringe a bit closer to his torso so Watson couldn't make a grab for it. "Watson, you know I need it."

Watson raised his eyebrows even more, "Need it?! You do not need it Holmes, you indulge in it. Unless you have become addicted to it as I suspect, since you have used it almost nonstop these last few months when you've been without work." He sighed and looked down at his shoes, muttering harshly, "I wish I had never given you the accursed thing..."

"You know what I mean, Watson!" he interrupted, "My mind cannot bear to be without stimulation!"

"And how does that apply to the present situation?!" he snapped, "You are not without stimulation—you are depressed and feeling sorry for yourself."

"You don't understand, Watson!" The doctor crossed his arms across his chest and raised his chin warningly. Holmes stared at Watson cautiously for a moment, trying to judge his mood, wanting to know how far his only friend could be pushed right now. The last thing he wanted to do right now was to open up and speak what was on his mind. "You don't understand," he repeated simply.

Watson locked eyes with Holmes, returning his gaze silently. He turned slowly to light the fire, trying to calm himself down at least a little. Holmes continued to watch Watson closely. The hand that held his syringe fell to his lap, still close to his body. His left arm remained bared on the arm of his chair.

Watson turned back, his lips pursed as he tried to maintain his composure. He chose his words carefully as he began to speak, observing his friend carefully. "Holmes...I believe you know that my only concern is for your well-being...and I cannot help but think you are addicted when you behave like this. Look at yourself! You act as if I threatened you with violence, the way you protect that syringe." Watson waved a hand exasperatedly at the hypodermic that was held close to the detective's body.

"It is because I know you will try to take it, and there is no reason for you to do so," Holmes replied calmly, though his grey eyes were beginning to show some fire.

Watson held up a hand as a sign that he did notwish to be interrupted. "Your unwillingness to see the danger in which you are putting your faculties by using the substance is also a sign of addiction. Did you ever stop to think, that..." Here Watson paused, biting his tongue anxiously. He was about to make a bold move, "...that your use of the drug may be what caused your apparent error yesterday? That perhaps...your judgment was clouded by its influence and thus you did not stop to consider..."

Watson trailed off, and there was a lightning-quick flash of something akin to fear in the great detective's eyes, as if he had considered that horrific possibility. Holmes's thin visage then began to flush deeply as he frowned. "Your opinion is much different than that of your contemporaries, doctor. I am not…addicted. It is immensely clarifying…And if I do not take it, I shall never…" It was Holmes's turn to pause, but he held his silence for a shorter length of time than Watson had. "Never be able to stop thinking about what happened."

Watson gave a long sigh, moving closer and kneeling next to the chair and resting one hand on the arm, gesturing with the other. "Do you honestly think that an artificial substance is a permanent solution? It is no different than alcoholism or ludomania, or any fetish which the mind can contrive. I do not pretend to understand…" Watson paused again, thinking how such a formidable mind might conjure up all sorts of nightmares, "…what you are thinking about Daniels's death. But I am a doctor and I do understand the desire to use artificial means to escape reality. You do not want to fall into that trap, Holmes." He stood and walked to the other side of the room, stretching and running a hand through his hair. "I fear you already have..." he sighed.

Sherlock Holmes did not entirely know what to say. He turned the syringe over in his hand, looking at it contemplatively. He looked up with a sigh and leaned back a little in his chair. "If it ever gets to be too much for me, Watson, I will cast it aside," he said simply.

Watson spun around quickly, his eyes flashing. "I'm glad you've been listening," he said sarcastically. He walked back to stand before him. "Can't you see that it has already become too much?" He spoke matter-of-factly, but was still a bit heated. "You are addicted to cocaine. And if you do not want to completely destroy those powers with which you have been endowed, you must stop. Now."

"It is only a seven-per-cent solution! No harm will come by it. Put your fears to rest, Watson. Why should I take so great a risk if I was not at least a bit convinced that it would be all right? And I am not addicted," he said defiantly, rolling down his shirt sleeve and replacing the syringe in the Morocco case. "I can put it away when I like."

Watson's jaw slowly went slack, his arms likewise falling to his sides. He stared silently for several moments, disbelieving. He then cleared his throat decisively. "Then put it away permanently," he said. "If you do not need it then don't even bother with it."

Holmes's hopes that the conversation would end died, and he hesitated for another brief moment. He set the leather case on the table beside his box of matches. "I cannot begin to explain how much help it is..." he said, gazing upon the rectangular case with something akin to longing. He turned his eyes upon Watson. "But if you truly feel so strongly about the matter—"

"Of course I feel strongly about it!" said Watson, exasperatedly. He turned, shoving his hands into his pockets and walked across to the opposite corner of the room. "Honestly Holmes, sometimes I think you don't listen to a word I say."

"Then perhaps I should—" Just then there was a knock at the sitting-room door. Holmes turned toward it, "Enter."

Inspector Lestrade came in, his clothes looking fresh but his cheek sporting a new, rather nasty bruise. Watson's hopes of making Holmes see reason about the cocaine were—at least for now—dashed. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," said the official detective.

Watson took in a breath and held it for a moment, and there was a brief silence. Finally, he exhaled, giving up his anger of moments before. "Good afternoon, Inspector," said the doctor.

"Good afternoon, Lestrade," greeted Holmes. "You have news?"

Lestrade smiled, his ferret-like face creasing lightly. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I have news, indeed." His eyes flashed with an accomplished pride. "We've got him, Mr. Holmes… Not even an hour ago, we captured Carter."

"Well..." Watson blinked in surprise.

"Very good, Lestrade," said Holmes, "I expect you'll get quite a lot of recognition for this."

Lestrade rubbed his hands together with delight and laughed. "It was a pretty little capture, let me tell you. He put up a fight, as you can see," a hand gestured to the bruise under his eye, "but we had him cornered."

Watson drew his hands from his pockets and took a few steps toward the centre of the room. "So what happened? Where was he?" he asked with some interest.

"Oh, he was hiding in Chelsea with a cousin—hadn't even told him the business! There were some unfortunate circumstances and he tried to run as soon as he saw us, but we caught him in an alley," Lestrade replied.

Watson moved forward, leaning his hands on table. "Interesting. And did he have the last plate with him?"

The official detective was still oozing smugness about the capture of so dangerous a criminal, and tucked his thumb into his waistcoat pocket. "Of course, he wouldn't have left anything so valuable lying around, and apparently he had found no place to hide it."

Holmes seemed amused at Lestrade's confident attitude. "Wonderful, Lestrade. You really have done a service for your country," he drawled, a little dryly.

Watson glanced at Holmes with a light frown, "Well, it's gratifying to know justice will be done."

Lestrade was completely oblivious to the sarcasm in Holmes's voice. "Indeed, it was one of the finest cases of my career. And now we can see to it that the man is hanged."

"And what of the other? What sentence do you expect for him?"

"Oh, anywhere from four to eight years," said Lestrade, looking at the doctor. "I don't think the jury will be lenient with him, either."

"Especially as he is a party to murder..." Watson agreed, trailing off and looking back at Holmes, watching his reactions.

"Well, Lestrade," said the detective dismissively, "I'm sure you'll see to it that they get what they deserve. Thank you for coming and telling us."

One of Lestrade's eyebrows rose curiously, "You're welcome, Mr. Holmes."

"It was a pleasure working with you Lestrade," said Watson, shaking the man's hand.

"And you, doctor, as always," Lestrade replied. Holmes set to filling his pipe, his business with the inspector concluded in his mind.

Just then, there was a light rapping at the door, and Mrs. Hudson entered. "Oh, Inspector," she said in surprise, "I did not see you come up," she looked at him curiously as she set the dinner-tray onto the table. Lestrade blushed, realising his error.

"My apologies, madam," he said, "I suppose I was a bit anxious to speak with Mr. Holmes."

Mrs. Hudson gave the small detective a disapproving eye, "Well, I suppose it's all right. Would you care for some tea?" she gestured to the tray on the table.

"Yes, thank you, that would be lovely," the inspector said appreciatively, for his day had been rather long and rough. Mrs. Hudson took the cups and began to pour tea for three.

Watson's eyebrows rose, and he glanced over at Holmes. The unofficial detective had closed his eyes, and his eyebrows rose in indifference, though there was a small frown as he put his pipe into his mouth and lit it. Watson's uncertain gaze shifted from Holmes to Lestrade, and he exchanged a glance with the busy landlady. Lestrade was not welcome.

"Will you be requiring anything else?" she inquired, looking at Watson and Holmes. Holmes's eyes opened slowly as he smoked.

"No, thank you," said Lestrade, "I shan't be staying too long."

Mrs. Hudson looked disapprovingly at Lestrade again, "Good day Inspector," she said, her tone suggestive. Watson's eyebrows rose at her boldness.

"I'm so glad you're staying for tea, Inspector," said Holmes, drawling dryly once again. One of these days, the good inspector would figure out the real meaning of that tone, and it would not be quite so funny anymore…

"Well, I figured that you would want to discuss the details of the case," said Lestrade.

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes, giving up. "Gentlemen," she said with a curtsey, and then turned to leave them to their conversations.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson..." Watson called, staring at Lestrade.

Holmes continued to smoke calmly as Watson stood tensely, watching as Lestrade ate all the biscuits.

"Was there...anything else you wanted to tell us?" Watson asked.

"Mm..." Lestrade muttered, furrowing his brow as he thought. "Not particularly," he said at last with a laugh. "I thought that perhaps Mr. Holmes would want to dazzle us with his chain of reasoning that led to the Carters."

"No," said Holmes, "I don't think it that it would be quite so impressive this time, Lestrade. It was merely just a matter of studying the notes."

"Hm," muttered Lestrade. "Well, I suppose every case can't be spectacular..." He bit into his biscuit with notably less enthusiasm.

Watson leaned against the back of the sofa, "Have you gotten any more out of them, now they know their fates are sealed?" he asked.

"A little bit," Lestrade replied thoughtfully. "The younger one has been quite talkative, much to the chagrin of his brother. Were you interested in something specific?"

"Well," said Watson, casting a furtive glance toward Holmes, "did you find out how they knew of the trap?" He fidgeted nervously as he awaited the answer.

Holmes raised an eyebrow at Watson, and then looked over to Lestrade, his lips tightening around the stem of his pipe.

"Oh, yes, that's one of the first things we asked him," the official replied.

"And?" Watson pressed curiously, glancing nervously between the Inspector and Holmes.

"Jim Carter, the younger, said they saw one of our men out front, being less than inconspicuous. He wasn't sure of it, but it was enough to set them entirely on edge," Lestrade explained.

Watson's eyes widened considerably, and he looked at his companion for a reaction.

Holmes took his pipe out of his mouth, "Do you know which constable it was?" he inquired. Watson drew in a breath and held it nervously. Lestrade stared down into his teacup and spoke a bit gravely.

"Yes, it was Harrison, actually, by the date they gave us." He looked up. "He and Daniels trained together...Needless to say, now that he knows it was his fault he feels terrible."

Watson let out the breath in a long and slightly obvious sigh, "Poor fellow..." he muttered. Holmes relaxed back into the chair, noticing he had been leaning forward slightly.

"Indeed. Well, Lestrade, in the future you shall have to be more careful of who you place on such duties," he said calmly.

Lestrade reached for a biscuit, only to find they were all gone, "Right Mr. Holmes..." he said, placing his hat back upon his head. "Well, I suppose I had best be off. I'll have enough paperwork to deal with to-morrow… I don't want to make it worse by being dead tired."

"Good day, Lestrade," said Holmes.

"Good day," said Watson with a slight nod.

Lestrade gave a nod to both Holmes and Watson, "Gentlemen." And with that he turned and left.

Watson sighed heavily as the door closed and the sound of footsteps descended the stairs. He moved to sit at the table and stared into his teacup for a moment, and then looked over at Holmes, drawing in a breath expectantly. Holmes had settled down deeper into his velvet-lined armchair, staring up at the ceiling as he smoked quietly.

"Well, he'll be hung for sure with all the evidence..." Watson trailed off as he watched Holmes as he reached for his Morocco case and cocaine-bottle again. His breath caught in his chest and indignation began to swell up once more, burning inside him.

Holmes took the offensive items up and stood, replacing them on the mantelpiece. Watson blinked in some surprise and took an uneasy breath, turning back to his tea and adding the cream and sugar.

Holmes turned away from the drug and put his hands into his pockets, looking down at the carpet. "Well, Watson," he said finally, "that is a bit of a burden off my mind." Watson looked at Holmes questioningly. The detective walked slowly to the window and gazed out meditatively. "I am sorry to have troubled you to-day, Watson…" he said. "But the idea that I had failed somehow was intolerable. Now that I know it was not my fault—"

"I have been telling you so all day, Holmes," said Watson quietly, his voice tired and impatient.

Holmes turned to Watson, a small smile tugging at his face. "I know, my dear Watson. I know." He stared out the window once again, his grey eyes distant. "I really must thank you...you are a constant in my tumultuous world."

Watson watched his friend curiously, a smile coming to his lips as his anger slowly faded. Sherlock Holmes was the worst patient in the world. Stubborn, neglectful, ignorant, and a plethora of other traits no medical man would want in a patient, and certainly not in a friend. But friend he was, and for all his failings, there was room enough in his heart for this doctor who went above and beyond the call for him in every capacity.

How quickly the detective had reclaimed his dominant role in the relationship as he stood with that nonchalant confidence, smoke drifting from his pipe, and his friend blushing under the compliment. Watson shoved down the little bubbles of elation that threatened to take over his mind, and returned to the task of the dinner before him.

"Tea?" he offered, turning back to the table. He had not forgotten what he had said earlier to Mrs. Hudson about getting Holmes to eat.

Holmes proceeded to the table and sat himself comfortably across from Watson. He took the cup of dark, steaming tea and brought it to his lips, his eyes glittering over the cup at his still-smiling friend. Watson could feel Holmes's eyes upon him and tried not to smile too broadly.

"Would you still like for me to 'read your thoughts'?" Holmes finally said with an amused grin, partially hidden behind his cup. Watson looked up, slightly startled.

"Well, yes if you wish to do so," he said, looking at him openly.

"First of all," he said nonchalantly, closing his eyes and tapping his fingertips on the cup, "Lestrade's intrusion annoyed you greatly--and you did not hide it very well at all, might I add... You are fortunate the Inspector is not that observant.

"Little thoughts of the day are playing on your mind...the case, the concert, the cocaine... And finally, you are now glad that I have 'recovered' from my black mood," he finished, taking a sip of tea and setting the cup in front of him offhandedly, "And you are positively bubbling over that comment I gave you..." he looked up at Watson, his steel eyes glittering.

Watson blinked several times in surprise. "You can't know all that?!" he said with genuine disbelief, though as he sipped his tea a smile was playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Well, it's obvious how I arrived at the conclusion about Lestrade's visit," he flashed a quick smile, "I could see by your distraction and glances the other thoughts." Watson nodded in agreement. "And you are grinning like a schoolboy that has found the cupboard of sweets. Really, Watson..." he finished with feigned shock.

Watson bowed his head and lightly blushed.

"So, now do you believe I can know your thoughts at all times?" Holmes asked, setting his arms on table and folding his hands together.

Watson's eyes glittered with sudden mischief, "Perhaps."

Holmes cocked an eyebrow. "You are constantly challenging me..." Watson laughed and unfolded his napkin.

"So do you admit you do not know what I was thinking at that moment?" Holmes snorted a laugh.

"Hardly, Watson, hardly. You're just trying to stump me again," he gave him a knowing glance.

Watson shrugged with a smile, "Perhaps."

Holmes frowned, "Now you're just being difficult..."

"Perhaps."

Holmes sipped at his tea again, mildly annoyed, "You are developing a certain sense of humour that I must be wary of... Rather pawky." Watson looked offended, but finally decided on a tight, amused smile.

"Well, it would be a nice counterbalance at least Holmes, to your shrewd humour."

Holmes picked up a plate and meticulously dished some of the fragrant dinner onto it. "I may be a force of justice, but I am not a scale that needs counterbalancing, Watson." Watson stared surprisedly at large portion of food Holmes has taken and helped himself to some food as well.

"Everything needs a balance Holmes," he said matter-of-factly, "All of nature has their complements. People are no different," he said as he cut a slice of meat. Holmes gave Watson a slight roll of his eyes.

"Romantic as usual, Watson."

Watson looked up, slightly surprised. "I was speaking sincerely. Nothing in life is as successful if it is without its counterpart. That includes both the physical and the spiritual."

Holmes watched him curiously as he took a knife and fork to the meat, "Perhaps you are right. Certainly my practice has increased since my balance sees fit to sing my praises in florid accounts..."

Watson was stunned and did not answer, turning to his meal silently as he pondered his friend's words. When he did not answer, Holmes started on his meal as well, uncertainty building within him.

"You know," he began cautiously, "that I did not mean that in a belittling way, my dear Watson." After a moment's hesitation, Watson looked up, a slight flush touching his cheeks.

"I know," he smiled. Holmes returned the look briefly before returning his gaze to the meal, and the two friends completed the day, refreshed and content as the kaleidoscope once again moved its focus from the quaint picture of 221B Baker Street.

The End

Part 1 can be found on KaizokuShojo's page.