The Adventure at Baskerville Hall & Other Cases

in sore need of it."
    "Yes, you must have been." Something like a shadow crossed his face and he fiddled with his cutlery for a moment before saying, "I should have foreseen that Mrs. Hudson would send for you. It was an oversight."
    This was as close to an apology as I had ever heard from Holmes, and when he changed the subject and asked about my visit to Bath, I forced myself to answer him.
    He's apologised, I said to myself sternly, hoping to extinguish the slow burn of anger that I could feel at the dismissal of nearly two days of mental anguish for me as "an oversight". He's apologised, or come as near to it as he's capable. Now let that be an end to it.
    But when Sir Henry, a few days later, expressed a desire for company during his journey to Baskerville Hall, I had offered my services to him almost before the request had left his lips. Some distance from the mess I had made of my life in London was required.
    Meanwhile, in my small room at Baskerville Hall, the fire was burning low in the grate, and I could feel myself drowsing where I sat. Heaving a sigh, I told myself that there was nothing to be gained by going over old grievances, and sought my bed once more.
    * * * *
    The morning after the latest iteration of my nightmare found me, as usual, rather short-tempered and tense. I had hoped to go out for a walk and lose myself in the wild, sparse beauty of the moor but it was not to be. The rain rustled in the ivy and dripped from the eaves of the house, and when I looked out of the window it was to see heavy, slate-coloured clouds hanging low over the landscape.
    After taking breakfast with Sir Henry, I decided to spend the day in the library writing a report for Holmes, updating my journal, and making a start on writing up some of our more recent cases.
    However, as the rain lashed against the windows and the fire crackled in front of me, I found that I spent more time in a brown study than actually writing, dwelling in particular upon something that had happened just before I had left London.
    I climbed the stairs, my medical bag in hand. It was barely twenty minutes ago that Billy had dashed up the stairs to tell us that a lady had been knocked down by a cab in the street below. I had grabbed my medical bag and followed, not even stopping for a jacket, and hence was chilled from being outside in my shirtsleeves but thankful that the lady had not suffered any injuries beyond shock and bruising.
    When I pushed open the door to our sitting-room, however, the chill seemed to sink deeper than my skin. Holmes was standing at my writing desk, and in his hand were the pages I had been working on when Billy burst through the door without his habitual knock. Holmes had no reason to think that he was not permitted to read the papers, since it was only an account of one of our cases, but that did not mean that I was entirely calm when I saw what he had obviously been perusing.
    "Watson," he said, unnecessarily. "You left in such a hurry that I wasn't sure when you would be back, and I thought I would just clear away your papers for you."
    From just that last sentence, I knew that he had read them. For my reason for wishing to keep them away from Holmes was not because of what they contained; it was because of what they did not. Since the Culverton Smith case I had found that I no longer had to work to restrain myself from lyrical descriptions of Holmes's physical charms and his intellect – for I felt that there was a distance that had come between us – and now he had seen it.
    "Thank you," I replied, forcing myself to meet his eyes and resisting the urge to snatch the sheets from his hands. As I replaced my bag in its usual spot, silently thankful that my flustered state could be attributed to the recent events, Holmes hesitated, seeming to weigh his words with uncharacteristic uncertainty before he asked, "Watson ... is everything all right?"
    My back was to him as he spoke, and I bit my lip. No, I wanted to tell him. No, not particularly. Because, you see, last night I watched you die, and when I awoke I actually held my fingers against your mouth to check that you were still breathing before I became aware of what I was doing.
    But all I answered was, "Yes, fine. The lady below was very lucky not to suffer more serious injuries."
    Holmes made a non-committal noise as I returned to my desk and my writing, but I felt his eyes upon me for a good hour afterwards.
    * * * *
    Restless and unable to settle, I spent