Watson hesitated, not sure how best to answer this. Was he supposed to welcome Holmes into his bed again, so soon? He was still hurt, and angry, and the thought of just ignoring everything that had happened was strangely painful. He wasn't ready for that, not yet. He couldn't imagine turning Holmes out into the street, either.

At last he nodded, not looking directly at Holmes. He was afraid of what he might see there: expectation, perhaps. "The bed upstairs isn't made up," he said. "Will the sofa do for tonight?"