Watson chuckled breathily. "The new tailor is very good, by the way. His shirts are splendid." Whether he was quite up to Holmes's standards -- and he always saw Holmes as being so wonderfully and exquisitely dressed -- was another question altogether.

He shifted in Holmes's hold, trying to think of how to distill the last three years into a fact or two. "Far less eventful than it was for you, I suspect," he sighed. "I considered moving, but could not bear it. Lestrade was kind enough to allow me to do some work with the Yard as a police surgeon. I was grateful for it. I'm not sure I have the temperment to be a respectable general practitioner." His tone was rather rueful; he didn't think that was something to be proud of, but sometimes it had been so dull.

There was much he didn't want to admit, either, but after wht Holmes had said to him, what Holmes had admitted, he couldn't justify keeping it secret.

"In the first year, I had difficulty making ends meet. My practice was hardly anything then, and I wasted much of it at the track, or the card tables." Watson sighed, burrowing close. He would not, could not mention how close he had come some nights to putting a bullet through his head long before Moran could have got to it. "I... I am doing better these days."