The Adventure at Baskerville Hall & Other Cases

retrieving her cheque book.
    Whether or not she knew that Douglas had engaged in a liaison with Holmes immediately before she began her affair with him, she did not say. In truth, it did not matter very much. Holmes had only to summon the police and present his evidence and chain of deductions for the lady to be ruined, and she clearly preferred to settle the matter quietly and discreetly.
    Once the footman had shown us out, his mechanical impassivity firmly in place once more, we stood on the street and Holmes carefully placed the cheque in his inside coat pocket.
    "Yet another journey to the Three Gables for me today," he said, making a wry face. "Rather tiresome, but I suppose it cannot be helped; I shall be happier when this cheque is safely in Mrs. Maberley's hands and when she knows that she has nothing more to fear from unknown intruders. Will you join me?"
    I shook my head. While it would have been lovely to see the expression on the lady's face when she learned that she could do what she had always dreamed of, yesterday's crisp brightness had given way to an icy rain that was chilling me to the bone and making my old wound throb painfully. On my calendar that morning I had noticed that it was the day of the winter solstice; our interview with Isadora Klein had lasted longer than I had thought and the damp winter sunlight was already beginning to dim, making me think longingly of a cup of tea and a roaring fire to ease the tightness in my thigh.
    "No," I answered. "I think I shall return home, what with–" I gestured awkwardly at my leg, although I was sure that my lopsided posture spoke volumes to Holmes, "one thing and another." Privately, I also thought that Holmes might perhaps benefit from some solitude once the case was closed, in order to reflect on all the startling revelations we had received, but I did not say so.
    "Of course," Holmes said, touching my arm, his face a picture of restrained sympathy. "Today is certainly living up to the worst stereotypes of English weather. Go home and enjoy a good blaze and think kindly of me, making the journey back out to Harrow Weald in this rain."
    I did as he suggested. I went back to our rooms and stretched out my legs towards the fire, sternly quashing my feelings of frustration and revulsion towards the gnarled flesh on my thigh that meant I was not the man I had once been. It was a useless waste of time to regret the past, as Holmes would tell me, and had I not been injured then I might never have come to London and met the extraordinary man with whom I now shared my life.
    I spent a large part of the afternoon and evening writing up my notes on the case of the Three Gables and was optimistic that, with a few judicious alterations, it might one day be publishable without throwing undue suspicion on Holmes or myself. I retired earlier than usual – an afternoon by the fire having made me lethargic – and did not bother to don my nightshirt. The lazy kisses in the armchair before the fire seemed much longer ago than merely the morning of the previous day; Holmes had barely touched me since then and I quietly yearned, body and soul, for his embrace.
    A muffled noise from the sitting-room stirred me into wakefulness sometime later. My pocket watch on the night stand told me that it was a little after midnight, and I curled beneath the blankets and closed my eyes again, thinking that it could not be long before Holmes came to join me. I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew was the muffled chime of the small clock on the mantelpiece of our sitting-room as it struck one. Sighing, I threw back the covers and reached for a dressing-gown. Left to himself, Holmes would remain sunk in his melancholy thoughts until they were succeeded by the inevitable black mood that always followed the successful conclusion of a case, and I could not bear to watch such a thing without trying to avert it.
    In the sitting-room, I found Holmes sitting on our settee with his long, lean legs stretched out towards the fireplace, and his chin sunk upon his chest as he gazed meditatively at the glowing embers.
    "Holmes," I asked gently, "are you coming to bed?"
    "In a moment."
    He had not looked at me as he gave this rather subdued response, and I could not repress my sigh as I said, "You must think me as deaf and blind as your bedpost."
    Then he looked at me, his head jerking up with almost comical speed. I had not wholly intended to voice my thoughts aloud, but now that I had,