A/N: In answer to a challenge: Write Watson's reaction to Holmes's writing The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier. Enjoy!

"Dashed good of you."

"Watson –"

"Do you even know what pertinacious means?"

"Pertinacious. Holding tenaciously to a purpose, course of action, or opinion; stubborn and obstinate."

"Thank you, Sir Walking Dictionary."

"You asked, Watson!"

For a long time he has worried me to write an experience of my own.

"Hardly that."

"Really, Watson, you have been at me for a number of years to do it."

"Only in self-defense about your twitting me about my stories!"

Perhaps I have rather invited this persecution…

"Persecution?"

"Well –"

"I should say you have invited it!"

…persecution, since I have often had occasion to point out to him how superficial are his own accounts…

"Superficial! They are your cases, Holmes! If they are superficial, that is because your methods were superficial!"

"Oh, do move on, Watson."

…and to accuse him of pandering to popular taste instead of confining himself rigidly to facts and figures.

"I am not writing a calculus textbook, Holmes, I am writing a story."

"Ah, but you should be writing them as instructive lectures, you see, because…"

"Oh, do move on, Holmes!"

…I am compelled to admit that, having taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to realize that the matter must be presented in such a way as may interest the reader.

"Very decent of you to make that backhanded apology."

"It wasn't backhanded!"

"And it was not an apology, really."

"Touché."

…Speaking of my old friend and biographer, I would take this opportunity to remark that if I burden myself with a companion in my various little inquiries, it is not done out of sentiment or caprice…

"Burden yourself!"

"Um, a poor choice of words?"

"Burden yourself, Holmes?"

…but it is that Watson has some remarkable characteristics of his own to which in his modesty he has given small attention…

"Hmph."

"Well, that was complimentary, wasn't it?"

"Burden yourself?"

"Please keep reading, Watson?"

…deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our situation…

"Seriously?"

"Seriously what?"

"That is the only one you can recall?"

"Well, there was that time in Brussels when you decided to go to that dress ball instead of the stakeout at the villain's home with me; and nearly got me killed while you were dancing the night away, may I remind you –"

"You were being a perfectly horrid specimen of humanity at that time and place, Holmes."

"So I deserved to be attacked by two men with daggers and scimitars in a dark alley, is that what you are saying?"

"You deserved six men, with repeating rifles!"

"Oh, do read, will you?"

…Such was the problem my visitor laid before me. It presented, as the astute reader will have already perceived, few difficulties in its solution…

"Oh, very nice Holmes – you'll lose ninety percent of the reading population with a remark like that."

"What is the matter with it? It was deucedly elementary!"

"Be that as it may, telling the reader he is a dolt if he does not follow your reasoning processes on the instant is not a good way to increase sales."

"Really?"

"Really."

…And here it is that I miss my Watson.

"About time."

"Will you finish the blasted thing?"

..."Yes, Mr. Holmes, the coincidence is a remarkable one."

"Indeed. Do you know what the literary term is for an ending like this one, Holmes?"

"No. Pray enlighten me."

"Anticlimactic."

"Anticlimactic?"

"Anticlimactic. You are familiar with the word?"

"Anticlimactic. A decline viewed in disappointing contrast with a previous rise."

"Yes, of course you know what it means. I mean, really, Holmes – the hero turns out to have only pseudo-leprosy and the curtain falls on a fainting woman. And you say my stories are pointless romantic drivel!"

I finally looked up from the bundle of papers I was holding, the manuscript of Holmes's first foray into what had been hitherto my sole area of better expertise than his; namely, the art of writing.

Sherlock Holmes was seated across my desk from me, stiffly upright in his chair, fidgeting nervously with a large paperweight on my desk, his cuff-links, my letter-opener, his cigarette case, anything within reach of his nervously twitching fingers.

He had come up from the Sussex Downs on a visit to me – and while I was thrilled to see him; it had been probably three or four months at least, and Holmes was notoriously remiss in his correspondence – I was not overly happy to be thrust into the position of unofficial editor for his first manuscript.

And such an atrocious manuscript.

I was hard put to not laugh at his obvious nervousness at having me view something he had written that was supposed to be in my genre – the man was eyeing me uneasily, probably half-expecting the same comments from me that he had always given about my work.

He was nearly bouncing round in his seat with his fidgeting, as I shuffled once more through the manuscript's pages, stacking them neatly back into order and clipping the sheaf back together.

"Well?"

"Well what, Holmes?" I asked, refraining from smiling with an effort.

"Well what – what did you think of it?" he asked, and the hesitancy in his voice made me want to laugh aloud.

"Well, I rather think it's like putting the third proposition of Euclid into an elopement," I returned, twisting his favourite comment about my stories from years gone by.

He stared at me but did not crack a smile as I thought he would.

"Really?"

"Really."

His face fell comically into a dismal, almost miserable state, and I could hold back no longer and laughed out loud.

Holmes started and then stared at me incredulously.

"Watson, you were teasing me all along!"

"Well, not all along. It really is pretty dreadful, you know," I said, only half-jokingly, passing him the manuscript.

He sighed in dismay.

"I have to admit it is rather harder than it looks," he said thoughtfully, glancing over the stack of papers, "how many of these have you written up, to date?"

"Thirty-three."

"Good grief!"

I laughed again, letting my eyes twinkle at him, and he glared at me for a moment with the old testy annoyance so innate within his nature. Then he smirked and leaned back in his chair, tossing the papers over to me.

"Put them in the fire, Watson – I shall leave the writing to you in future, I believe."

"I shall do nothing of the kind," I replied, setting the papers inside a large envelope, "I shall send this to Doyle post-haste. And we will let the public decide who is the writer in this partnership, Holmes!'

"No!"

"Yes, Holmes. Someone has to convince you that perhaps writing a romantic adventure story might sell a trifle better than a lecture on criminology," I replied mischievously, sealing the envelope and its dreadful contents.

"I take it all back! Don't you dare publish that, Doctor!" he said frantically, trying to snatch the packet from my hand. I held it out of his reach playfully, enjoying his near-panic.

"Oh, you just wait, Holmes. The fan letters will simply flood your little bee farm."

"Watson!"

"Now where did I put my stamps, I wonder."

"Watson! Please!"

"Ah, there they are."

"Watson, for the love of heaven!"

His voice had risen in pitch to that of a child pleading for a new toy, and the look in his eyes matched the comparison. I felt my impish resolve starting to melt.

"You said I was a burden, Holmes," I reminded him.

"I did not! I said if I chose to burden myself with a companion –"

"Well whom were you talking about, Lestrade? Or perhaps Toby the dog?"

His mouth opened and closed once or twice, making him look rather like a thin white fish, and then he swallowed and slumped back in the chair, looking at me with defeat and not a little returning nervousness as he tried to fumble his way through an explanation.

"I am sorry, Watson, I did not mean it like that – I meant, well, I meant that so many people have wondered why – why you stuck with me for so long, that –"

"So you thought you would lay all their questions to rest by telling the world that you chose the burden, not that it was forced upon you, is that it?"

I was nowhere near as annoyed as I let my tone portray – I knew my Holmes as well as he knew me, and I knew that line was nothing more than one of his pathetic efforts to put emotion into his writing. He had enough trouble softening that façade in real life, much less in prose, and he was doing his feeble best to acknowledge my loyalty in that little story he had just come up with.

I just enjoyed, very much enjoyed, seeing him feebly try to backtrack and fumble through an explanation, thinking I was hurt by his poor word choice.

"No! That's not it, and you know it!" he cried with genuine indignation.

I saw that he was really getting distraught and knew it was time to drop the act. I grinned openly at him and shoved the envelope into a drawer casually.

"Well, I am glad to hear you admit that you missed me, at least," I said, leaning back in my desk chair and dropping the subject.

"I do have to admit, Watson, that I grow weary of talking to bees all day long," he said dryly, a quirky smile turning the corners of his mouth as he realized I had been mercilessly tweaking him.

"You know, I didn't believe it when I first heard that. I mean, bees?"

"Hmph. They really are a fascinating study, Watson, you know? I am in the process right now of gathering notes for a book upon the subject. I am thinking of calling it A Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen. What do you think?"

I stared at him with something akin to horror.

"I think that you should at least let me title this adventure you just wrote up – I don't think the Strand is going to be thrilled with your kind of headings, Holmes."

He glared at me, but when he saw that I was only barely restraining a shout of laughter, he joined me at last.

"I say, old chap, was it really so dreadful?" he asked wistfully as we finished our outburst.

"No, Holmes, it really was not," I admitted, "not at all. Granted, not my style, but…"

"Your style is inimitable, Watson," he said seriously, putting his elbows on my desk and leaning forward earnestly, "and I for one would never be such a fool as to attempt to copy it."

"Was that an actual compliment about my writing?" I asked incredulously.

"Confound it, Watson, can't I say anything nice and have you believe me instead of thinking I am out of my head?"

"Not in that area," I declared, "you never have before!"

"Yes, well, maybe retirement has addled my brain," he muttered.

"If so, it is very much for the better," I told him helpfully.

He sent me a withering look, but his gaze softened a little as he leaned back once again.

"I did mean it, you know."

"The burden part?"

"No, that I did really miss you. I still do, actually," he said frankly, shocking me nearly into cardiac arrest with his open statement.

"The 'good old days', eh?" I asked wistfully, thinking of bygone years.

"Now that is a cliché even I would not have used in my poor story!"

I laughed.

"Well, my dear Holmes, so you have tried your hand at last to chronicling your own adventures. What conclusion have you drawn from your efforts?" I asked teasingly.

He lit a cigarette slowly and thoughtfully.

"I believe, Watson, what I have learned the most vividly is –"

"Is what?"

"That I truly am lost without my Boswell."

And suddenly, my annoyance at his endeavoring to give me writing competition did not seem quite so great as it had ten seconds ago.