"Do I need the brandy," Watson scoffed. He got to his feet, his fists still clenched tightly as he took a step towards where Holmes was on the floor. Distantly, he recognised this scene of Holmes on the floor clutching his face as wrong, terrible, particularly if he was responsible, but he was in a red haze of fury.

"How dare you," he hissed. Watson advanced on him, his face a mask of rage and betrayal and hurt. "How dare you! Three years, Holmes. Three years! After all your talk of 'always' you throw this sort of deception in my face?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his face no longer white with horror to be sure.