Always. He'd meant it, of course. He still does. In the context of always, three years is but a hiccup, but they didn't feel like a hiccup to him, and obviously not to Watson either. He sighs and gets to his feet, and he arranges his clothes more neatly, and he shrugs out of the bookseller's jacket. The struggle to keep from breaking down entirely is becoming more difficult, but he doesn't want to come apart at Watson's feet. The point of this was to put himself back together.

He'd been prepared for this, and he's already been struggling with guilt, because he could have defeated Moran sooner. He knows this, is sure of it, but his volatile nature finally bested his mind, and he sunk into a numbing depression that left him exposed and vulnerable. He should've fought harder.

"It wasn't my idea," he says, avoiding Watson's eyes as he adjusts his cuffs. "I hope you have another right hook left, for you'll want it by the end of the evening."